


Some Computers, A Few Knives, And Friends

by QueerPurpleDragon



Category: Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Anxiety, Anxiety Attacks, Awesome Jarvis (Iron Man movies), Awesome Pepper Potts, BAMF Pepper Potts, Bi-Gender Character(s), Blood and Gore, Brain Damage, Brainwashing, But he’s also spidey, Celebrities, Concentration Camps, Dad!Tony Stark, Drama, Eventual Romance, F/F, F/M, Flashbacks, Food, Forgive Me, Gender-Neutral Pronouns, Genderqueer Character, Good Peter, Guns, Gunshot Wounds, Help, Howard Stark's A+ Parenting, Hydra (Marvel), I Don't Even Know, Implied/Referenced Brainwashing, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Torture, Injury Recovery, Insomnia, Jarvis lives, Let me know if I offend tho, M/M, Medical Trauma, Mental Health Issues, Mental Instability, Multi, Nazis, Nice Peter, Nonbinary Character, Not Canon Compliant, PTSD, Panic Attacks, Past Brainwashing, Past Torture, Peter Parker’s Internship At Stark Industries, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Pre-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Precious Peter Parker, Psychological Trauma, Racism, Rape/Non-con Elements, Serious Injuries, Seriously please be careful and mind your mental helath, Sexism, Slow Burn, Slow Romance, Spies & Secret Agents, This is essentially my perfect mcu with my OCs in it and plot, Tony Stark Acting as Peter Parker's Parental Figure, Tony Stark Has A Heart, Trans Female Character, Trans Male Character, Trans Peter Parker, Trans boy Peter Parker, Trans characters by a trans author, Trauma, Traumatized character, We're All Friends Here, What Have I Done, Winter Soldier Bucky Barnes, at all, but it ends ok, eventually, i get to that drama, later on, mentioned/flashbacked to, multiple of them, shes got layers of it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-07
Updated: 2020-02-16
Packaged: 2020-06-24 00:51:01
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 24
Words: 123,178
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19712959
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QueerPurpleDragon/pseuds/QueerPurpleDragon
Summary: Spark Dillon may not have made the smartest decision hacking Stark Industries, but it ended without her being sued, so she thinks it went okay. And when Tony Stark himself texts her, complimenting her hacking skills, she thinks it went pretty well, even if it puts a little danger in her life, as she is a minor super hero herself.The girl does not know who she is. She responds to a name she knows is not hers and that she hates, coming from the mouths of people with sneers and octopus tattoos. She is scared and blank and maybe a little desperate. But she gets through it because the Asset must have his Raven, and she’s not failing him.Tony Stark just wanted another cool, smart kid in his life, okay?





	1. Hacking Stark Industries

**Author's Note:**

> Hey guys, so I'm going to post triggers at the beginning of each chapter. Please let me know if I miss something. This is a story that started out as a cute little short one and grew into a massive one with a plot long enough to strangle me. 
> 
> In this chapter-
> 
> Food  
> Insomnia  
> Mental Health Issues (TM)

My girlfriend is pretty smart, don’t get me wrong. So I have no doubt that if she applied to some fancy internship, she totally would at least have a shot. The problem is, when Spark came up to me and told me she got one at Stark Industries, I pulled a blank. Spark talks non-stop about anything she applies to, it’s her way of de-stressing. If she applied to SI, I would know, and I, in fact, do not.

I decide to congratulate first and question later.

I think about all of this as I stir my coffee, staring at Spark’s excited face as she talks very, very fast.  
I take a bite of my glazed donut while she talks, nodding along. “Ray, this is going to be so incredible, an internship! And they even let me set my hours, Mondays and Wednesdays for half the day, and then most of Saturdays, pretty cool, huh? I’ll have so many more resources-did you know I’ve been dumpster diving for supplies? It’s incredible what people throw away, honestly-anyway, I was thinking about making this kind of bandage, you know, one we could use while we’re in-suit, part of the fabric, you know? And it could kind of act like that membrane on the inside of an egg-keep everything together without stitches until it heals over enough, maybe heat and cool for burns? Or if it’s really serious, your body’s temperature would be fluctuating, and it would need to change with it to make the person comfortable, and maybe it could be made of some soothing material? You know, plants and stuff? But that would decompose, and it might get suspicious that we would be ordering a ton of it like clockwork, even if we disperse it among all nine of us,” she says. She stops to take a breath, and in that handy second, I interrupt.  
“Yeah, babe, that all sounds great, you might want to talk to Ember or Bryn on it,” I say, referencing the two other engineering geniuses in our little gang. Spark insists she’s better at coding, and I can’t deny her skills, but I also don’t think she’s half bad at design. “But I wanted to talk to you about something.”

I glance around the café, trying to decide how to say this while I have Spark’s attention. The fairy lights are a colorful addition, I like them. They go well with the rest of the décor-it’s random in a nice, homey way. Tables made of all different kinds of wood, chairs with different colors on the cushions, glasses that are a different color for each, soft rugs, bean bags, and so on. The walk-up bar displaying pastries of both Latin America and the more American type is below the hanging blackboard menu, which is translated into both Spanish and English, and next to the counter is the stack of pamphlets translating into yet more languages (I think there’s even one in Braille).

I don’t want to hurt Spark. Maybe she applied yesterday, forgot about it over the science test, and got a very quick response today. Maybe she didn’t think she really had a shot, so she didn’t mention it.

I doubt it. Spark gets excited whenever she gets an opportunity-she’s poor enough that they’re rare.  
“I just don’t remember you applying,” I say quickly, taking a sip of my coffee. I spit it out almost immediately. I forgot to add sugar so I just drank black coffee. My face twists at the taste, and Spark laughs.  
“Here,” she says, handing me some napkins and a few sugar packets. “And yeah, I didn’t-uh-apply. Not exactly.”  
I rip open a packet of sugar while taking another bite of my donut to rid myself of the taste. She pauses, apparently thinking. By the time I’m three packets in and stirring my coffee, she says, “I-uh, you know Izzy?”  
Of course I know Izzy. Iz is the AI Spark made with Ember a few months back. She became self-aware two months ago and has been helping out with the superhero stuff ever since. (Normally, I wouldn’t talk about this stuff in public, but the café is so full of students that just got out of school that I’m not concerned.)

“Yeah?” I say, just before taking a sip of now-fine coffee.  
“Well,” Spark says hesitantly, “I wanted ideas for her, you know? And there are rumors that Stark built himself an AI, so I thought, hey, nice, right? So, I, uh, I hacked them.”

You know how in those cheesy TV shows, when someone is drinking something and someone else says something surprising, they spit it out really dramatically? Yeah, that didn’t happen. I had already swallowed halfway, so when I tried to say something back while I was in shock, I just ended up choking and coughing my guts up. Spark hands me yet more napkins as my eyes start to water with the force of it.

Once that ends, I jerk my head back up to her, take a raspy breath, and demand, “What?!”  
She nods, taking a sip of her soda (she’s trying to see if cutting back on coffee will help her insomnia, but so far, it’s only made her grumpy). “Yup. Did that.”  
“Oh my God, Spark, I love you, I really do, but that was really, really stupid,” I say, wide-eyed.  
“Uh-huh,” Spark says, taking a bite of some braided pastry I don’t remember the name of.  
“I mean, you could have been sued, Stark’s got the lawyers-“  
“Sure.”  
“And then he could jail you-“  
“That would be sad,” Spark comments as she smiles at me.  
I ignore this. “And that dude has ins everywhere, what if he blacklisted you? You would never be able to go to college-“  
Spark laughs. “That’s already remote, babe.” I smack her lightly both for interrupting me and for the negative talk.  
“And you probably wouldn’t be able to get a job, what if he did that? You wouldn’t be able to afford meds, or school supplies, maybe even rent or something-“  
“Oh, like there isn’t some shoddy, desperate businesses out there.”  
I pause and put my head down on the table, overcome with the need to shake some sense into Spark. “How about I just summarize the telling-off speech, since you’ve heard it before?” I ask the tabletop.  
“That would be nice,” Spark says.  
I sit up. “Okay, so that was really stupid, you always jump before you think, what if that went badly, you really need to choose new projects, how did you even do it-“  
“There’s the same backdoor that the government has unpatched,” Spark says casually.  
I stop, and the world sways slightly as I take this in. “You hacked the government?!” I hiss, knowing to keep my voice down.  
“Yeah,” Spark says, “I needed to check the identities of the people we’ve fought in order to make sure they’re not too dangerous and or allergic to the stuff I’m injecting them with the take them down. How did you think I was getting that info?”  
I did not think about it. It was just something Spark knew, like Star just knows how to improvise when she’s super nervous and maybe about to die, and how Jack has a never-ending amount of jokes and puns. It just is.

“Yeah, but they haven’t caught me, and if they did, the only thing they would find is the name ‘sh0cking’ under about ninety layers of code that I made blend in. It’s fine.”  
I put my head down on the table again.

\---

Yesterday, 1:16 AM

Stark Man  
Hey kid nice job hacking me

Me  
Uhhhhhhh

Me  
Please don’t sue me I like life

Me  
I’m so sorry I didn’t break anything I swear all of your code is fine

Stark man  
Oh yeah, I know I checked

Stark Man  
You did a nice job, all I could find for the last four hours was the name ‘sh0cking’, it was pretty well hidden

Stark Man  
How did you give yourself level 20 access that’s Avengers level?

Me  
Uhhhhh

Stark Man  
Oh! I’m not suing, I’m mostly just impressed

Stark Man  
Took me a full hour to figure out something was wrong

Stark Man  
The thing with Pepper was the hint

Me  
Which one  
Stark Man  
Having “God Is a Woman” play when she burned someone being disrespectful

Stark Man  
Wait what else did you do

Me  
If anything sets on fire “Burn” from Hamilton will play

Stark Man  
I’m keeping that

Me  
Okay,,,

\---

Yesterday, 5:27 AM

Stark Man  
Job application link

Me  
I’m literally so confused right now I have gotten 0% explanation  
Stark Man  
Explanation: you’re smart, I employ smart people, so congrats

Me  
:((((

Stark Man  
B)))))

Me  
But I literally hacked you

Stark Man  
Indeed

Me  
????!!!!!!??????

Stark Man  
:)))))

Me  
I HACKED YOU

Stark Man  
YES AND YOU’RE VERY SMART I LIKE EMPLOYING SMART PEOPLE

Me  
I’ll fill out the form

\---  
Today, 2:12 AM

Stark Man  
How do you feel about starting today

Me  
It’ll be bad any day lol why not now

Stark Man  
Cool, get in the third elevator to the right when you get to the tower

Me  
What will I be doing

Stark Man  
What do you want to do?

Me  
So you’re paying me to use your stuff to do whatever

Stark Man  
Pretty much for the first week, we give you kiddos free reign, see what you can do

Me  
Okay so if I had this idea for a super bandage, but I wasn’t sure what to make it out of, could I phone a friend or is this an in-the-building type thing

Stark Man  
Do whatever can’t wait to see the outcome

You renamed the chat to ‘Adoption Conversation Central’

Stark Man  
I feel attacked

Me  
I know for a fact that you have legally adopted a son, you have a biological daughter, and you have at least like five others that are your children in everything but law

Stark Man  
I came here to have a good time,

Me  
You did not, you came here because we’re both sleep deprived and won’t judge each other for it, old man

Stark Man  
Verbal assault,

Me  
On an elder,

Stark Man  
Physical assault,

Me  
Are you willing to up the number by three, counting me

Stark Man  
What other children are we talking here

Me  
A non-binary Mexican American genius who specializes in both physics and engineering in general

Me  
An engineering genius who straight up could destroy me through her brain power tbh

Me  
And me!!

Stark Man  
And you…

Me  
I code stuff, mostly

Me  
You know, they build it, I finish it

Me  
I also help with the idea process, but I like making the thing physically less

Stark Man  
Interesting

Stark Man  
So this may sound hypocritical

Stark Man  
But you need to sleep

Me  
“”May””

Me  
You’ve literally never texted me before midnight

Stark Man  
>:((((

Me  
:)

\---

Walking into the Stark Tower is definitely the most stressful thing I’ve ever done in my life. It’s not like I particularly stick out, with my semi-casual skirt and old blouse-I think I see one man in sweatpants and a pun tee-shirt up ahead. And I’m not over dressed-next to me is a woman in a low-cut, fancy dress, wearing stilettos high enough to mortally wound me with.

I’m just nervous, okay?

I came here directly after school, so I had to stuff my work things in my bag. That’s why the majority of what I need is in my purse-a med kit, complete with everything from the necessities for emergency surgery to a neatly folded shock blanket, my make-up bag, my phone, my laptop (upgraded by Ember and myself, in both hardware and software, along with Izzy’s presence), chargers for both, some various tools Bryn made for me, and my super suit, carefully concealed and only accessible if you either tear my bag apart or if Izzy opens the cloth itself to let the fabric fall out.

I move with the crowd through the doors and then get separated as we pass through security. I’m frisked, my bag is checked (“Why do you have a med bag? Are you a doctor?” “Trying to be, ma’am”), and then I am set free.

The elevator Stark told me to use is only occupied by a cute Asian girl. She has long black hair that moves with her head as she takes in everything around her, a messenger bag that she guards under one arm, and fancy clothes-pencil skirt, slight heels, and tucked shirt. I run to catch the elevator before it closes, but I didn’t need to worry-the doors close only after I am safely onboard.

The girl takes me in with a blank, polite face. “Hello,” she says. Her voice is an attempt at politeness, as well.

“Hi,” I say, shrugging my purse up onto my shoulder.  
“First day?” she asks, smiling slightly.  
“Um,” I say, not sure what to do or say, “Yeah.”  
“This is my fifth,” the girl says. “I’m a translator-German, Chinese, and English.”  
“Wow. That’s really cool,” I say, impressed. She looks my age; how did she learn so many? “I only speak English. I’m in Software Development, developing medical tech.”  
The girl nods. “That also sounds impressive.”  
“Yeah, uh,” I say, shifting on my feet. “I’m Sophia Dillon, but I don’t like my name, so I’m Spark.”  
The girl nods regally. (That is the only way I can possibly describe her nod, and maybe the girl herself.) “I’m Shay Li. It’s nice to meet you, but this is my floor.”  
I didn’t even realize the doors had opened. “Oh!” I say, jumping aside. “Yeah, uh, bye.”  
“Goodbye, Spark,” Shay says, gliding out of the elevator like a queen.

I sigh and collapse against the side of the elevator as it starts to move again. Looking out the window, all I can see are buildings-we’re not above the skyline, and this is New York, what was I expecting? It is nice, though-it’s a street, not a straight-up wall like I have at home. I watch the crowds moving along for about thirty seconds before-  
“Hello, Miss Dillon,” says a voice that I do not know. I know who spoke it, though.  
I jump. “Jarvis!” I say, looking at the ceiling. “Wow, hi, dude!”  
“Good morning,” Jarvis says.  
“Yeah, uh, sorry for hacking you, buddy,” I say, “I-uh-didn’t hurt anything, I just copy and pasted for ideas, you know?”  
“I would say I don’t, but I was built by Master Stark,” Jarvis says, “So I have seen many illegal dealings in the name of innovation and invention.”  
I laugh. Wow, yup, I can imagine that. “Still,” I say, looking around for speakers or cameras. There’s one in each corner, so it seems like Jarvis is talking from everywhere, maybe vaguely up. “Sorry, man.”  
“It’s quite alright, though I would like to see what you did with your inspiration,” J says. “However, this is your floor. A warning, Miss Dillon: this is about to get loud.”  
“Oh,” I say, “Um. Okay.”  
The elevator stops moving, and the doors slide open. It’s not loud, actually; there’s a little lobby with a receptionist typing away on a computer behind a desk. She doesn’t look up, just pointing me to a wooden door with silver handles. I decide to trust her, moving towards the double doors and opening them.

Okay, that’s loud. Why is there so much screaming?

I watch one man near me gesture emphatically from the middle of a circle of holograms, talking at top speed and volume. A few feet away from him, a woman in sweatpants is feverishly printing something out, muttering to herself. My vision shifts to a man, maybe twenty, who is typing at a desk and acting rather calm for his surroundings. I decide that he is a god and that I should not mess with him. Either that, or he’s on an edge of a mental break down and is just barely holding on.

I decide to focus on the fact that there are holograms. Like, glowing blue, hanging in the air, holograms. That people are using casually. Oh my God. This is so cool.

“Hey, kid,” someone says, “You new?”  
I spin to my left to see a tired man in a Star Wars tee shirt and baggy jeans, holding a packet.  
“Here’s your info,” he says, offering it to me.  
I grab the packet, glancing at the front page. I can see my name and my new job title. “Thanks.”  
“Sure,” he says, already turning around and walking away. So much for helping the new kid.

I turn the page. I can see a bunch of stuff, like my phone number and my new email-I glance at the password and username-and on the page next to it is a very vague message next to the ‘project’ place: “Have fun with your bandage, kid”.

I smile and look back on the first page, looking for instructions on what to actually do. Eventually, I see a desk number (twenty-seven, so helpful when nothing’s labeled).

Eventually, I find a row of desks that have not been pushed around, and I count from there to number twenty-seven. It’s an empty desk, which consoles me.

My stomach rumbles ominously as I put my bag down. I’m not sure if I’m hungry or about to throw up-I didn’t eat breakfast or dinner last night, and then eating the school lunch might not have been the best. I ignore my body, sitting down in the rolling office chair and glancing over my desk.

There’s a fake plant and a few cases of office supplies, nothing much. Mostly just wood. I have no idea what to expect, I’ve never had an office job, but I’m feeling like this is outside the norm.

I pull out my laptop and log into my new Stark Industries email. I have no mail (unsurprising), so I move onto pulling up some complicated program that supposedly allows me to run 3D simulations and stuff.

I’m partway through the loading screen (I started typing on my laptop while I was waiting, writing down some more ideas of what the bandage could do) when I hear yelling.

“Please don’t tell me you’ve adopted another young genius!” says some female voice. She’s following behind Mr. Stark, a redhead with a sharp dress and a StarkPad in-hand. Stark is also looking fancy-all business suit and dark sunglasses.

“Oh, come on, Pep,” Stark says, ignoring all the people looking at him as he pauses only slightly to look around. He stops, looking in my direction, and sweeps forward. I inwardly groan, not wanting to be killed by the lady currently yelling at him.  
Stark approaches my desk and smiles, seeing the way I’m staring at him. I glance behind him to the redhead (Pep?) to see how high my chance of being murdered is.  
“Hi, Mr. Stark,” I say nervously. “I-uh…”  
“Hey, kiddo,” Stark says, sitting on my desk. “What you working on?”  
“Tony, you have a board meeting right now-“ Pep attempts. I shrink away from her a little.  
“I, um, who’s she, and I don’t-if you’re busy-“ I attempt bravely. My brain tumbles over itself as it attempts a sentence, unhelpfully giving me panicked signals.  
“Nah, sweetheart,” Stark says, taking his sunglasses off. “Wanted to see you on your first day! And that’s Pepper, she’s my personal assistant.”  
“Riiiiiight,” I say, “So, uh, I respect you, and stuff, but I already respect her more, mostly because she wants to murder me, but, uh, so-“  
“I don’t want to murder you,” Pepper says, slightly softer than before. “And I’m sure you’re very smart, but Tony is busy.”  
I feel my stomach shift. My face pales, and Pepper squints at me. “Are you okay?” she asks.  
I nod quickly, hoping my stomach shuts up. It does not, choosing to growl unhelpfully. Apparently, I’m hungry, which is great.  
“When did you last eat?” Pepper asks as Stark looks me over.  
“Uh, lunch,” I say, shifting under both of their scanning looks. “Some chicken, fried, I think, I don’t really know how they did that, like, an apple, some milk, and a bunch of really sad corn.”  
Pepper nods encouragingly as Stark puts his sunglasses back on. He continues looking at me, so I assume he just wanted to look me over closely without making me uncomfortable. “And what about before that?”  
“Uh…” I say, wondering if Pepper would count the slightly stale bread Brooke got me or the cereal I ate at least, like, twelve hours ago. “Cereal…? Yesterday…morning…?”  
Pepper freezes for about half a second, and then quickly moves. She dispenses her StarkPad on my desk, hauls me out of my chair, makes a sharp motion with her head toward a worried-yet-grinning Stark, and starts to move toward the elevator.

As I’m pulled along-people continue to stare, but neither Stark nor Pepper pays them any mind-there’s a seizing pain in my abdomen. My fist clenches and I force an absent smile onto my face. Stark cannot see, thankfully, as he’s following along behind, and Pepper is busy dragging me behind her.

It’s once we’re inside the elevator that the weird feeling in my hip starts. Apparently, just for fun, my body decided to pretend there’s a hot nail buried inside my right hip. This makes me limp the last few steps, which Stark definitely notices.

He casually slings an arm around my waist and immediately starts taking the majority of my weight. Somehow, like he’s done this before, he manages to do it so that neither of us looks particularly stiff, with his arm looped almost loosely around me. Pepper, seeing this, looks about thirty percent more stressed and worried. She straightens her posture even more, her eyes flicking between me and the number over the door displaying our current floor.

By the time we get to the cafeteria, Stark is still taking most of my weight, Pepper is still glancing between me and the path she is forging between us, all despite the fact that the cramps have lessened slightly.

It’s a nice cafeteria; it must take up a whole floor. There are stalls and small restaurants for every culture and food I can think of. The walls are mostly made of glass, showing off an impressive view of the rest of the city.

I would be able to admire it more if Pepper would quit dragging me along.

She talks to Jarvis as we go, who is apparently in a microphone in her ear that I can barely make out over the racket of the cafeteria.  
“Jarvis, what’s the most healthy and nutritious thing in this place?” she asks, setting me down at a table. This one is in a small cubby off of the main place, and it’s full of fake plants and screens showing all kinds of bland information-the weather, traffic situation, and a few news feeds.

“I would recommend a soup made of chicken or beef broth and light vegetables and potatoes. I would also suggest a glass of milk and some sort of fruit,” Jarvis says helpfully. “You should also order Miss Dillon a sandwich of some sort, as she can choose to eat it here or carry it elsewhere, perhaps with a salad or another fruit.”  
“Thank you, Jarvis,” Pepper says testily. She sweeps away, and I see her disappear into a soup and sandwich shop that is suddenly very, very quiet.

Stark settles into the chair, watching me anxiously pull at my clothes and their imaginary wrinkles. His sunglasses are now hanging off his shirt collar, and he’s leaning back in his chair casually.  
“You know, sweetheart, if your father can’t afford food-“ he starts, his eyes still searching me.  
“We can afford food,” I say, “I just would prefer meds or college or more tech supplies or one of the million other things. Books. Trips out with my friends where they wouldn’t have to pay for me. A subscription to one of the papers that publish studies.”

Then my jaw shuts tight, and I stare at a screen in the wall showing the fascinating humidity percentage.

I have the sudden feeling that I’ve said too much.

Honestly, my situation is pretty simple, in a logical point of view. I’m poor, so my dad works as much as he can to support us. With the extra expenses such as my meds and future ones like med school, I pick up two part-time jobs, along with high school. The solution is simple: attain money. Which I would love to do! But…

The hard part is my brain.

The feeling I have right now, where it feels awkward and bad whenever I tell anyone anything personal, not just my money situation. (“Hey, who’s your mom?” “What, you’re asexual? With that boyfriend of yours? He’s a model!” “Hey, why are you always so tired?”)

And then there’s the Endless Checklist. Go to school to learn so you can have a good job later. Go to work to earn money so we can afford literally anything besides basic necessities. Stay up late Skyping Ray and working on Izzy to feel alive. Go out as Super Shock so I can save people and get rid of the constant itch to move, create, be helpful, not useless, they expect you to be useless, you cannot be useless-

And then there’s dad himself. He faded, after mom left. He works more, has that stupid fake smile on most of the time, pretends I can’t see the tiredness in his bones or the slowly growing pile of bills.

And what I want to do, of course, is one of the most expensive things my stupid self could have chosen. A doctor, really, me? We can’t afford that unless I get a scholarship, and that’s pushing it for us to pay for all of the hundreds-of-dollars books. I need to go to school and get perfect grades, which means stressing over every test and essay.

The insomnia that makes me resent sleeping, avoiding my bed and the uselessness that comes with lying there in the dark, stubbornly awake.

So, yeah, I have bigger concerns then the ache in my stomach.

My fingers twitch, and I can’t tell if it’s the sudden rise of self-doubt or the anxiousness that comes with having Tony Fudging Stark staring at you incomprehensibly.

I look away. “I’m fine,” I tell him. “I’m not anorexic-I don’t do this because I want to be thin, or anything… I just want things that I can’t get otherwise.”

Stark, out of the corner of my eyes, looks like someone just took out his liver with a rusty spoon.

Work, keep going, ignore it-

Man, I really need a therapist, huh? Could Izzy be my therapist? I think, purposefully trying to draw my mind away from that. I could have her download whatever’s in the public domain, I wonder what studies there are on self-doubt…

“Sweetheart…” Stark starts hesitantly. I look up at him, my fingers twisting in my lap.

My bandage, what else could I do with my bandage? The edges would have to be sticky, but is there a way to make them come up without taking any hair or skin with it? What chemical mix could I use for that? I should ask Ember, she’s slightly better than me with chem… And then I need to figure out how burns react to different ointments, maybe there’s something that works well with burns and cuts, that would be good. Maybe getting rid of scar tissue-

“Sweetheart, I can pay for that,” he says, “All of that. Whatever you want. I’m-I’m a multi-billionaire, sweetheart, I can pay for all of that-”  
He’s interrupted by Pepper’s return. She has a large bag hanging off each arm, and she’s already fishing around in one. She takes out a plastic container that has soup in it and a banana and quickly puts them in front of me.

Stark looks relieved when I eat without argument. I try to go slow, both so I don’t throw up and so I don’t make this situation worse. I’ve probably made a bad impression already, honestly, but at least I can do this.

I eat the banana first, and that’s gone in about forty-five seconds, maybe a minute. Bananas are quick to eat, I never really thought about it. Then I move onto the soup, eating while I regularly look up at both Pepper and Stark, who are watching me.

Stark fills Pepper in with what he knows at a whisper, and Pepper’s red eyebrows scrunch. Her face then flattens as if she ironed it out.

Stark has the distinct look that he’s killing off his demons internally. Pepper, a goddess who did that long ago, is free to interrogate me.  
“Do you only eat school meals?” she asks. I look up from my soup, chewing as I consider.  
“No,” I say, “I eat whenever dad’s around, don’t want him to worry, you know, and two of my friends run a bakery with their mom, they bring me food a lot, Em’s kind of rich, she’s been trying to pay for literally anything I do for months now. And I take what they give me, but, uh-“  
I don’t want to be a burden. Don’t be useless.

I scrub my face with one hand. “Jesus, I’m messed up,” I grumble. “Useless, really, brain? If that’s true, how did I get this flipping internship?”

My brain, predictably, does not respond. Instead, I have a concerned Pepper and one man who just found a new demon to battle, judging by his face.  
“Okay,” she says, mercifully ignoring my commentary. “Do you have other jobs? Clubs?”  
‘ I nod. “No clubs, although I probably should, for the sake of college admissions-“ I pause at the devastated look on Pepper’s face and quickly move on, “But I do… uh, I have two part-time jobs. McDonald's and a tiny little clothes store that needs a cashier slash janitor.”  
Stark buts in. “How much do they pay? I’ll double it, you can drop those.”

The relief at those words almost overwhelms my blushing face. “Right,” I squeak. “Uh, around fifteen dollars per hour? It’s minimum wage in the city, so they kind of have to…”  
“J?” Stark asks.  
“On it, sir. Miss Dillon’s pay has expanded by sixty dollars per hour,” says the ceiling.  
I sip my soup, considering. “Where’s the money coming from?” I ask.  
“Me,” Stark says even before J confirms. “No one’s suffering because you are, promise, I’m covering it.”

Well. Okay.

“So, um, I should get back to work,” I say, eating a chunk of potato and ignoring the way Pepper is glaring at the bags under my eyes.  
“Actually,” Stark says, apparently having recovered his Smooth Billionaire Shield Against Emotions and Other Troubling Things, “I was thinking you could stay on one of my guest floors. They’re great, really, they have everything J and I could think of.”  
Pepper latches onto the idea. “Yes, that’s-yes. Okay, um, if you’re really full-“  
“I came here to work, ma’am, sir,” I say quietly.

DON’T BE USELESS, WORK, MOVE, GO, CREATE, HELP, DON’T, NO, BAD, NO-

“You can work after you sleep,” Pepper bargains. “You can do anything else, but at least you have to sleep.”  
Stark nods as his sunglasses make their way back to his face with a smooth motion. He has a cocky smile on his face when he says, “We like to have our employees at maximum productivity. Can’t do that if they’re sleep deprived.”

Which, you know, makes an infuriating amount of sense. I try to tell this to myself-I need to sleep, wasn’t eating nice? (It was very nice, actually, I can already feel my stomach settling.) All I succeed in is talking to myself like I’m a toddler, which does not really do much, if you’d believe it.

Move, create, design, code, work, go, help, don’t be useless-

If I’m useless at any point, it’s when I can’t think straight from exhaustion.

And with that revelation, I get up and nod jerkily. Both Stark and Pepper roll with it, looking very relieved.

Pepper guides me back to the elevator (“Didn’t Pepper say earlier you have a meeting?” “Shhhh, she’ll remember.”). We go up to the eighty-third floor, where the silver opens smoothly to a small hallway.

There’s a flowering plant that looks real and a painting hanging on the wall showing a sunset in blurry watercolor. One door is painted a bright red and blue, with some black lines covering it like a large spider web. I raise an eyebrow but ignore it.

The other door is white, but on top of the blandness, there’s a hologram reading Sophia “Spark” Dillon, Stark Industries, Software Development Department, Medical Technology Development, which seems overly fancy for what I’ve done so far.

I open the door, and Stark and Pepper wave me goodbye. Pepper actually hugs me, which I was not prepared for. 

And then the door is closing behind me, and I am alone. I’m standing in a little entry hall with a basic table and vase flowers set up. There are hooks on the wall, presumably for coats, and a shoe rack. I decide to slip my shoes off, just so whoever cleans this place has less of a horrible time. 

I move forward into a large room that is both a kitchen and a living room. There are bookcases lining one wall, with a TV mounted in the middle and a bunch of couches and armchairs in front. The other wall is glass, and it has an easel and several expensive instruments in front that I am scared to touch. There’s also shelves with empty frames on them, they look kind of lonely. 

The other two walls are a massive kitchen that Ray would kill to cook in, containing everything from stainless steel double ovens to a bar. It’s so fancy that I barely recognize the coffee maker, so I decide to not touch anything there, either, until I’m a little more awake. I do, however, check the fridge, and yep, it’s fully stocked. 

I move on to a giant bathroom decked out in white tile and gold, a mini cinema room that has its own popcorn machine, and what looks like a library out of The Beauty and the Beast. Eventually, I find a bedroom. 

The color scheme is mostly grey and blue, which I don’t mind very much, since it’s calming. There’s a desk in the corner with a high tech computer and a bookcase stocked with classics next to another massive window. Then there’s the walk-in closet, the bathroom that is more of the white tiling and gold everything else, and a comfy-looking couch in the remaining corner that’s next to a lamp and a plant that may or may not be real. 

I look at the bed mournfully. How am I supposed to sleep? It’s not like my insomnia is in direct correlation with how nice my surroundings are. 

Yeah, this is going to be great.

I shed my socks and bra, which I refuse to sleep in, and face plant onto the bed. I’m soon surrounded by a blanket burrito, complete with pillows that I snuggle up against. 

My mind delves back into ideas for updating Izzy’s code. Therapy tactics that need to be downloaded-should it be a separate mode, or should she just slip it into a conversation whenever? Probably a little of both. And of course, I could update the code in the suits…


	2. Bonding Time and Panic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bonding with Tony Stark and Pepper Potts and panicking over friends.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey so I'm going to be gone for a week, so I decided to post a chapter early!! (Because I have a fair bit prepared to go up regularly as I write.) (Also, because I'm amazing)]
> 
> This one is mostly just a fluffy, bonding moment. 
> 
> Triggers (I said mostly)
> 
> Nausea  
> Dissociation  
> Pain  
> Heart Problems  
> General mental health problems

It took maybe twenty minutes for me to fall asleep. That’s practically thirty seconds, in my book. And after that, I managed to stay asleep until around four hours later. 

I groggily wake up to a clock blinking the time at me, as my pillow has fallen onto the floor. Nine fifty-eight. 

I slowly wrestle my way out of the soft prison I have made myself. By the time I’m free, it’s five minutes later and I’m laughing to myself as I put my clothes back on. I stand up, and suddenly remember that I should call Dad.

I grab my phone from my pocket and quickly call. God, he’s going to be so stressed-

“Hey, dad,” I say quickly, “So don’t be mad, but, uh-”  
“You’re staying at Stark Tower, I know,” Dad says. I freeze, confused.  
“What? How?” I ask, moving into the main room to grab some food. The fridge has some Chinese food in it, which I decide to eat. As look around for a plate and silverware, Dad answers.  
“Someone named Mrs. Potts called me,” Dad says as I find a drawer full of forks, knives, and spoons. “Said you came in so hungry and tired that you couldn’t function.”

Oh boy.

“Oh,” I say stupidly. “Um.”

“Yes,” Dad says pointedly, “I thought we had a conversation about you not sacrificing short-term health for long-term goals?”  
“I need to go to college, Dad!” I say, opening a cabinet to look for plates. Nope, a bunch of bowls. “Even if I do get a scholarship for college, me actually going is only, like, two and a half years away. We need to figure out how to pay for all those books, never mind if the scholarship isn’t a full ride!”  
There’s a sigh from the other side of the phone as I finally find a cabinet full of plates. As I grab one, Dad says, “Sweetheart, I can worry about that stuff. And even if you have to, I don’t like the idea of you passing out from hunger.”  
“Okay, first of all, I did not pass out,” I say, scooping rice onto the plate with a fork. “Second, and maybe better, Mr. Stark was the one who forced me to eat, along with Mrs. Pepper, who I think has the last name Potts, so that’s probably who called you. Anyway, he offered to raise my pay by at least sixty bucks per hour.”  
There’s almost no pause before the excited, “OH! Spark, that’s amazing!”  
“Yeah,” I say, adding lo mein to my plate.  
“You could quit those extra jobs!” Dad says excitedly.  
I add fried rice, because it’s delicious and I haven’t had it in a while. “Yup, that’s why he did it.”  
“You could join clubs!” Dad says, “And I know you’ve wanted to!”  
“Yeah,” I say, sliding the plate into the microwave. I pause and quickly add an egg roll before starting the microwave. “My schedule sure gets a lot less hectic, huh?”  
“Oh wow,” Dad says. He sounds very relieved, which is good.  
I lean on the counter and say, “Yeah, well, you remember that robotics club? They program a lot, and I need to work on, you know, actually building stuff, so-”  
“That would be amazing!” Dad says, “And the Red Cross, you could get some medical experience, and you’d be open for volunteering, that looks good on college submissions-”  
“Yeah, there’s a clinic that I’ve been looking at,” I say, grabbing my food from the beeping microwave.  
“Wait!” Dad says, “You distracted me! I’m still mad at you!”  
It almost worked, I think sadly.  
“Okay,” I say, grabbing my fork and sitting on a bar stool to eat at this weird raised part of the counter.  
“You can’t just do that, what if you actually passed out, and it was somewhere dangerous? And don’t think I haven’t heard you sneaking out at night, I know you can’t sleep a lot, but I’m starting to get concerned. And what if you got hurt? How could we have paid for that? And then there’s the fact that we have money for food-”  
“Yeah, but we could be spending it on other things,” I say. I chew on an egg roll as Dad responds.  
“Spark!” he says angrily, “You have to take care of yourself!”  
“I know,” I say, finishing my egg roll. “Of course I do. Why do you think I haven’t passed out yet? I’ve been keeping track of this stuff.”  
That’s partially true. Technically, Izzy has been keeping track of this stuff, logging it in the journal thing. But I do try to follow along, and I make sure my blood sugar doesn’t dip below functioning levels.  
There’s a sigh. “Okay, just...You’ve gotten really lucky lately, and with our current savings, we don’t have to worry about it, if we keep going like this…”  
“Oh, yeah,” I say, “Easy peasy, just don’t break anything, or come down sick, get into a car crash, get killed in a school shooting. Dad, we need to be prepared! What if something bad happens?” I anxiously take a bite of my fried rice. “We won’t be able to afford anything.”  
“We’ll make it,” Dad says, his voice hard with determination. “And you, young lady, are going to at minimum eat.”  
I sigh. “Fine. Bye, dad.”  
“Bye, Spark, love you,” Dad says. “You can stay at the tower, I don’t want you wandering around. It’s gotten dark out.”  
“‘Kay, Dad, love you,” I say, pressing the end call button. I sigh and take a moody bite of rice, thinking everything over.  
“Miss Dillon, if I may,” J says, “Master Stark has a question for you.”  
I look up. “What is it, J?”  
“I will play the recording,” Jarvis says. A hologram pulls up in front of me, showing a video feed of Stark in his workshop.  
“Yeah,” Stark says, working on welding something to something else. “Anyway, I was thinking. So obviously she’s barely scraping by with the pay of those two jobs, plus her dad working.  
“I obviously can’t raise her pay more, it’s already suspicious,” he continues, picking up the piece of metal and handing it to a nearby bot, moving instantly to another thing-he starts wiring a prosthetic arm. “So why not make her my direct employee? Like with Peter? Obviously, she can’t be my intern like Pete, but something else?”  
J responds then. “Well, sir, you could have her as some sort of help around here. Perhaps you could start a private design of some sort of medical technology, and then call her in to help with the new project?”  
“Yeah, that’s good,” Stark says, distractedly patting a robot passing nearby, “But people will get suspicious…”  
“Sir, if I may remind you,” J says sarcastically, “You are Tony Stark. Who questions you?”  
Stark laughs while he messes with a blue wire. “The press.”  
“And, sir, if you are really concerned about this-”  
“I’m not concerned for me!” Stark says, “She doesn’t need the attention. What if she’s kidnapped because of me?”  
I stare at the concerned face of Stark. He’s now waving emphatically with the tool he was using to move the wires.  
“Of course, sir,” J says. “I was going to suggest you create some sort of distraction. A diversion that the press would focus on.”  
Stark nods, going back to his work. “Like what?”  
“Well, sir,” J says cheekily, “Pride Month starts in two days.”  
Stark freezes. “You want me to do something for Pride Month?” he asks. “Like what?”  
“Well, sir, Peter is a transgender male,” Jarvis responds, “Most of the Avengers are some sort of queer. And you do happen to be bisexual, if you are willing to share that.”  
“I am not,” Stark says immediately. “But I could do something...It would have to be big. Oh, uh, tell Spark she’s getting a job up here.”  
“Of course, sir,” J responds.  
The video stops. I stare at the frozen face of Stark, lit up slightly by a nearby lamp.  
“J, I’m pretty sure he didn’t want me to see that,” I say. “I feel like I just saw top-secret info.”  
“Well,” J says innocently, “I thought that way would be best to get the feeling and message across.”  
I laugh in a shocked way. “Yeah, okay, buddy,” I say. “Why don’t you tell Stark I’m awake? I don’t exactly know what to do around here.”  
I finish with my food and put the plate and fork in the sink and then move on to putting the containers of Chinese food back in the fridge.  
“Master Stark has been notified,” J says. “He wishes for me to instruct you to get into the elevator, Miss. Dillon. It appears he wishes to work with you in his workshop in the penthouse.”  
“Oh,” I say turning to the elevator. As I get in, I stop and look at the ceiling. “Hey, uh, J, are any of the other Avengers there?”  
“Not currently, Miss Dillon,” J says.  
“Okay,” I say, relieved. “Beam me up, Scotty.”  
“Of course, Miss Dillon.” The elevator moves smoothly upwards. 

\--- 

“Hey, kid!” Stark says. He looks up from his work. He, frankly, looks like a mess; he’s covered in grease and smudges of oil, and he’s not wearing gloves as he welds. But his dark brown eyes are bright and excited when they catch mine, so I think it’s okay.

“Hi,” I say. “So, pretending to give me a job while also simultaneously giving me a real job sounds fun.”  
“Yeah!” Stark says, already turning back around to his project. “And you can work on whatever in here, so it’s all good!”  
“Right,” I say, cautiously walking in. I pat a small robot that rolls up to me on the head, and the small thing chirps at me happily before rolling away again. I take out my laptop.  
“Hey, Izzy, time to look alive,” I say, placing my phone on the table too. Stark looks up as Izzy starts pulling up diagrams and pages of math.  
“Mr. Stark, Mr. Jaris, it is nice to formally meet you,” she says, “I am Elizabeth, Spark’s AI. She prefers to call me Izzy or Iz.”  
“Nice to meet you as well,” says Jarvis, “I am JARVIS, Master Stark’s personal AI.”  
There’s a small whirring sound from Izzy in confirmation. “Spark, I have created a private file listing all of the ideas you have mentioned for your bandage idea. It is listed under ‘bandage project one’, and I am pulling it up.”  
I sit down in one of the spare seats Stark has rolling around. “Cool!” I say as the file pulls up. 

Bandage Project One

Spec Ideas  
Clings to skin-holds the laceration/burn in place during the healing process  
Stick to the skin in some way by extension  
Changes temperature in response to fluctuations in the patient’s temperature  
Possibly made of some sort of healing/soothing material  
Decomposition is both a negative and a positive, as always  
The material would have to be inconspicuous to buy and cheap

Izzy notes: The bandage needs to be as comfortable as possible while also solving as many medical problems as possible. A slim design would be best for easy movement, and flexibility should also be a priority.

Spark notes: 

“Hey, nice, Iz,” I say. “Let’s say that the bandage covers the entire body like a suit, how much ointment would that have, and would it be able to retain all of our previous needs from it?”  
Of course, I’m asking if it could still fit all the protection our super suits currently have without limiting flexibility. The compression for Petal’s and Onyx’s binders would also need to happen.  
There’s a slight pause as I start clicking through ointments we could add. Stark is still staring at me. He speaks slowly, “Hey, Spark, I have a salve that would work. I keep it in my Iron Man suit, it can be sprayed onto pretty much anything without making anything worse. It keeps bacteria out of cuts and helps heal burns.”  
I look up at him and smile. For some reason, he looks startled. “Hey, that would be great! Hey, Jarvis, can you give me all you know on it? So Izzy can have it? I need everything from its density to how it helps burns.”  
“Of course, Miss Dillon,” Jarvis says, opening a complex hologram to my side, where Izzy can see it from my computer and phone. “Is this suitable, Elizabeth?”  
“Yes, thank you,” Izzy says, copying it all onto another file marked under ‘bandage project reference’. Once she finishes, the hologram switches to another flurry of information, and that happens three more times before it’s done. J gave Izzy everything he had, it looks like.  
“We could fit around two liters,” Izzy announces, “If we keep room for more additions and for flexibility.”  
“Oh cool,” I say, “Let’s down that to one-point-five liters. That should be enough for whatever dents.”  
Stark stares at me. “Uh, what ‘previous additions’ are there?”  
“Izzy, pull it up,” I say, hoping she knows not to do the in-detail one. “Basic construction diagram.”  
The thing pulls up, a skin-tight suit with highlights where certain things are. There’s a support situation for harsh landings from up high, grips that can appear and disappear for easier climbing, and so on. Izzy is still adding the outline of the new bandages, she’s dispersing them like veins between everything else so they can go anywhere. Stark stares.  
“What-why do you need this?” Stark asks, standing up and getting closer.  
I scramble for an answer. I do not want Iron Man babysitting me in-suit as well. “Well, uh, it’s helpful in theory, right? Like...I’m working with Petal-she’s a clothes designer-to make clothes that you can wear underneath instead of underwear that would be, like, really helpful. Uh, it would, if anyone got hurt accidentally-like, if you were in a car crash or something-give medical help. Like there’s, uh, compression around the chest and abdomen for wounds-they bleed the most there-and, um, I’m working on it being bulletproof-it’s already pretty much blast proof. It, uh, changes temperature, which mostly is helpful when someone overheats or gets too cold, but for...an explosion, it-uh-turns the top layer cold so the person in it doesn’t fry, and then...the blast impact, that thing that blows you backward? Yeah, um, if you go flying, like, no part of the suit is supported by ground or anything, or if Izzy thinks it’s necessary, she’s in here, obviously, um, she would distribute the force as best she can. So, um, someone going seventy miles per hour into a concrete wall might just break a few bones…instead of, you know, dying.”  
Stark nods slowly. “You’re-okay, wow, this could save lives, couldn’t it?”  
“Yeah,” I say slowly, hoping he doesn’t notice the grips for climbing, “I...um, yeah.”  
Stark enlarges the system that handles the impact. “Oh!” I say, “That works by basically compressing the entire thing as you collide. It spreads out the weight. Also, there are small little things that inflate to decrease your speed, even by just a little. There’s other stuff, too, but I haven’t tested them yet.”  
Stark looks up at me. “You have a functioning prototype?” he asks.  
I freeze. Oh no. “I...yeah, nine of them, they each do different things...like, one is made to take high temperatures for a long time,” I say, latching onto Ember’s suit and how it handles her miraculous ability to create flames, “So...if you were caught in a fire, it would help...and everyone also has a filter around the mouth and nose-it works for everything from smoke to poison gas.”  
Stark studies me. “And how did you figure that out?” he asks.  
I freeze. My mind flashes to the time I went into a building some terrorist group had let poisoned gas into to drag people out. I, at that time, had no idea if the filter could take more than smoke. “Uh…”  
Stark stares at me for a few minutes where I stubbornly remain silent, unable to come up with an excuse.  
“We’re going to stand here until you answer me,” Stark tells me.  
I swallow uncomfortably. “Like you never throw yourself into danger.”  
Stark’s face hardens slightly. “I don’t throw myself into poison gas clouds until I’m sure I won’t breathe it in! You just said it as if you needed to test it, and you decided to go ahead-!”  
I turn back to my laptop. “The first function test for your suit was launching yourself into a warzone. Much better.”  
Stark makes a frustrated sound behind me.

\--- 

I get up to leave after fifty minutes of silence. (I had Izzy time it.) Stark looks up immediately and says, “Please don’t go,” in a way that’s so desperate it makes me pause. 

It had been so tense. I just typed away on my computer and he switched between around eight projects. All in silence. 

I turn back to him. Study him. “Are you going to ask me?”  
He puts his tools down. “Not if you don’t want me to. I can get having...dangerous secrets.”  
I laugh to myself, a low chuckle. “Yeah, I guess you can,” I say, slowly moving back to my little spot. “Um, what music do you like? I can play something.”  
Stark picks his tools up again. “Try AC/DC.”  
I blink. “Okay, old dude,” I say, “Iz?”  
Unfamiliar music comes from my laptop. I blink at it, and then decide I can just ignore it. Behind me, I hear an over-the-top offended sound, and then, “I am not old.”  
I wave him off without looking, smiling, “Sure, old dude, whatever.”

From then on, the silence is comfortable. Stark starts welding something, I don’t ask, I start creating a diagram for how the bandage might look in the suit, Stark doesn’t ask, and it all goes great. 

Then Pepper comes in, at around midnight. I look up, midway through pulling my hair back into a ponytail with one of my reserve hair ties. Stark doesn't bother.  
“Hey, Pep,” he says cheerily.  
“Hello,” she says tiredly. I see her put one hand on the wall, and then she’s taking off her heels. As soon as she’s done with that, they’re being tossed so far into the workshop I think they hit the mini kitchenette about fifty feet from me. I turn to watch their impact, and yep, that’s the fridge and oven. I wonder if they’re dented now. Then I turn around to Pepper.  
“Um, hi,” I say, “Yeah, those sky-highs must have hurt.”  
“Yes,” Pepper says, hopping up onto the table about five feet from Stark. “They do.”  
Stark looks up, switching off his welder. “You know, you don’t have to wear those things,” he says, “It’s not like people would question your authority.”  
Pepper raises an eyebrow at him. “Oh, really?” she asks. “No one person? Once the illusion drops, no one?”  
“Okay,” Stark admits, “Johnson might try for a sexual assault case. But I can always fire him!”  
“He’s head of legal!” Pepper argues, “Do you know how big news that would be?”  
Something in Stark’s eyes flashes. “Yup.”  
“Oh no,” I say, “I can feel a bad idea from here.”  
“I don’t care, at this point,” Pepper says, leaning back. Her hands move to her hair, and she takes out the pins that keep her perfect bun in place. Her hair falls down in a mess, trying to stay in the shape it had been in for so long. “Fire away.”  
“Literally,” I add. 

Then Izzy flashes a red light at me, and I turn around so fast, I’m sure I must have blurred.  
“Star appears to be having an attack,” Izzy tells me. “Irregular, fast heartbeat, hormone imbalances, and pain appear to be the symptoms.”  
I pull up Star’s stats, and she’s correct. It looks like Star’s in-suit, but she’s within her house still, so she probably just freaked and got in so Izzy could give her more information through blood testing and tracking her heartbeat. She’s curled up loosely, and according to Iz, on her bed.  
“Whose closest? Is anyone awake, or am I going over there?” I ask.

Star is living with her dad. But she has a complicated relationship with him (read: he was absentee until her mom died a year ago), so she doesn’t usually go to him or even till him that these things happen. 

“It appears Jack is currently on route,” Izzy says, pulling up a map of the subway system, with a glowing blue dot showing where Jack is. He just barely is on a train. 

“How conscious is she?” I ask, ignoring the way both Spark and Pepper are staring at me. I bring up a page showing her heartbeat and watch as it shows the uneven pace. Izzy pulls up another showing her hormone levels.  
“As always, hormone levels are significantly lower than they should be, if we take into account the time and how long it has been since Star slept,” Izzy says, highlighting the low number in comparison to what it should be. “There also seems to be slightly decreased blood flow to the brain, and a decrease in the efficiency of her brain using that blood and the energy it has.”

“Is she nauseous? That’s usually a thing,” I say, clicking through several more screens showing negative things.  
“It appears so, but she has yet to actually vomit,” Izzy informs me.  
“Is she willing to?” I ask, “She usually feels better if she does, right? Gets rid of the bad stuff in her system.”  
“Indeed, but as Star is currently saying, ‘barf tastes bad,’” Izzy says.  
I groan. “Yeah, she’s not entirely conscious.”  
“She appears to be starting to dissociate.” 

I mutter a string of curse words under my breath. “What even triggered this? What’s the lighting like? She reacts better to gold lighting,” I say.  
“Tainting eyepieces gold,” Izzy says, “Complete.”  
“Thanks,” I mutter. “Play music. One of her playlists, I don’t care which.”

Izzy pulls up a page that shows she has started playing Panic! At The Disco radio on Pandora (Star prefers Pandora over Spotify because she can play specific songs for free, not just the ones on a pre-made playlist) (She also doesn't like paying for the good Spotify). 

“Would it be safe to give her sleep meds right now? She feels better after she sleeps it off,” I say, trying to come up with ways to make this better.  
“I am unsure,” Izzy says, “If Star has the coordination right now to get into her bathroom and take the meds without waking up her father. She has specifically told me not to do that.”  
“Great,” I mutter.  
“Jack has gotten to her front door,” Izzy says. Indeed, his blinking blue dot is there. He must have sprinted from the station. “He appears to be unlocking it with his spare key.”  
“Tell him to be quiet,” I say, “Like, deathly quiet. I’m talking if-you-make-noise-the-apocalypse-will-start silent.”  
“Jack has responded with this,” Izzy says. She plays an audio recording, where Jack says “I know, love, thanks, Pikachu” really quietly. 

“Helpful,” I say. “What’s he doing?”  
“He is currently in the bathroom getting the sleeping medication and some water,” Izzy says. “Now he is moving into Star’s bedroom.”  
I lean back. “Are they good from here? How’s it going?”  
“Star appears to have gone into a full dissociation mode, as she asked me to call it. She is almost lethargic, but her hormone levels suggest she will not be able to sleep for at least a few hours. Jack is now talking to her, telling her about his day.”  
“Awesome,” I say, “Crisis solved. Let me know if anything goes wrong.”  
“Yes, ma’am,” Izzy says, the screen goes dark again.

I turn around in my wheelie chair to see both Stark and Pepper staring at me.  
“Is she okay?” Pepper asks hesitantly. I shrug and get up, pacing out the nervousness.  
“This happens every once in a while,” I say, deciding to grab a drink. As I head to the mini fridge in the corner, I continue, “She feels awful. Hormone imbalances, mostly, which causes nausea, pain, dissociation, and other fun things. It usually wears off after a few hours, but she can hurry it along by sleeping it off or, you know, throwing up. Or crying, but she’s usually emotionally void enough that she can’t cry when she gets like this.”  
Stark leans back slightly, his pose screaming confidence. I see this when I turn back around with my coke. I open the bottle and take a swig before pacing. “She’ll be okay, she always is,” I say, anxiously taking another sip.  
“Are you saying that to us, or yourself, sweetheart?” Stark asks, watching me go in-between the table my computer is resting on and the fridge.  
“Both, you old man,” I say, taking another anxious drink.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! Hope you liked it. Next chapter introduces the other main character!


	3. How About No

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The girl was assigned a mission, and she's doing it. So what if she's a little hesitant? Those octopus idiots won't ever know. Probably.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter! I got a lot of writing done this week, so I might post another chapter this week. Hope you like it!
> 
> Triggers-  
> Paranoia  
> PTSD flashbacks  
> Panicked character  
> Amnesia-ish behavior

The translating department wasn’t as bad as the others I’ve been. There was a definite effort to make it a nice place to be-plants, real and fake, that are everywhere, free office supplies and snacks, and little sitting areas scattered around, composed of everything from a collection of multicolored bean bags to a mini library with Victorian-era-inspired armchairs. It was certainly a far cry from the rows of desks I had been expecting. 

Yeah, it was different. It was nice. I...liked it. 

Right now, I’m sitting and watching my coffee cup. But I’m also watching everything else-the other workers around me, the way the TV is turned on to some news anchor talking about a mysterious shooting (JamesJamesJamesJamesJames), and how one woman is making coffee in the kitchen that is for some reason to our disposal. 

I take a sip. The coffee is black, and got cold around ten minutes ago. I ignore that fact. 

My computer is open in front of me, showing the work complete page. I finished translating the new website’s help directory into German thirty minutes ago. Since then, no one’s told me anything to do, so I’m doing exactly what a teenager new to the workplace would do when they have no instructions-nothing. 

Blending in and being consistent is very important. 

There are footsteps behind me. Heavy, slow, consistent. Calm, not in a rush. The weight suggests male, along with the sound the footfall has-usually men’s shoes sound different than women’s.  
“Hey, kid,” he says. His tone is impolite. His name is Alexander Bell, goes by Alex with friends, but he insists I call him Mr. Bell, despite him not being my superior. Overall, he is an annoying, unpleasant man.  
“Hello, Mr. Bell,” I say, turning around to face him. I fiddle with my coffee cup to feign nervousness-men like Bell prefer when they’re dealing with a weak person who doesn’t know what they’re doing, and it’s consistent with what I’ve been doing. “What do you need?”  
I’ve pretty much exclusively been talking with phrases any teen would know-what do you need, hello, goodbye, how are you, and so on. All polite, bland, forgettable. 

“Did you finish?” he asks roughly, despite his ability to see my screen fine. “Completely?”  
“Yes, Mr. Bell,” I say. My mind wanders off as he questions me about a coffee run that I made earlier. I answer him with polite, empty words.  
What do I have left? What’s inside my skull, what stuck to the bone and brain matter?

I go through, sifting. The black coffee made me feel good-when I looked at the creamers and sugars I got such strong revulsion that I know there must be a memory attached-if only I could think of it-

Winter. Snow. Sweater, grey. Lipstick, pink. A mirror, where I can see my own face-i’m touching up my bubblegum pink lipstick-a girl with caramel skin and black hair so coarse and curly I’m sure I couldn’t pull a comb through it without yanking the hair out of her skull-she’s wearing blue jeans and a long-sleeved shirt with an advertisement for a gymnastics place. A coffee-black-and a silver spoon. Red and gold fairy lights. “Welcome to King’s Bakery!” the girl says from behind a counter as a boy wipes down counters, his dyed-blue hair as curly as hers and flopping in his eyes. “What would you like today?” 

Huh. That probably got through because it’s not that important or personal. Like a mission where my target went into a coffee shop. They double-check all those memories that are too big of a giveaway. Speaking of, do I have a family?

I can’t-hurts-wow, okay-

Black hair, laughter, sobbing, rice in a brown bowl, a sausage in my small chubby hands, screaming, crying, pain needles hurt doctors grey fences hunger thin bare ribs tired muscles bones snapping blood pain yelling sad scared angry blank. 

What the-

My head throbs like it’s about to explode. I put a smile on my face and nod along with Mr. Bell and hope that it will stop soon if I ignore it. 

Pain is just feedback.

Pain is just feedback.

Polite, smile, move on.

“Anyway, we need the entire website up by the end of the week,” Mr. Bell says, “So I was thinking you could do the main body paragraphs, it would certainly speed things up.” 

I smile politely at this heathen as I take in what that would mean in a split second. I would work past my hours, which a regular teen may object to. But this man is a Scary Adult™, so that might override. And why not? It’s not like it would be hard.

How do I know German, though? Chinese? When-

Ow-

“Of course, sir,” I say, chastising myself for thinking of it again. Thinking can wait until I’m not in pain anymore. “I’ll get right to it.” I don’t hope he goes away. I sit down and wish he would combust spontaneously.

I spend the next two hours doing what Mr. Bell told me to do, despite the fact my work day ended after the ten-minute mark. I translate the main page’s paragraphs, which mostly talk about how amazing SI is. By the time I finish, it’s seven-fifty. I get up and empty my very cold coffee into the sink and put the empty mug in the large dishwasher that’s inside one of the counters. It takes me a minute to figure out and remember where to start the thing, and it takes a few more minutes of looking through the many cupboards for the little pods of soap to be able to actually start it. By the time I’m cleaned up, it’s two minutes after nine.

I don’t want to leave. I don’t know if they sent someone to “check on” me, and I don’t want to find out. 

I sit at my desk again and open my laptop again. (I know what that will do, but I don’t-I can’t care right now.) I decide to go above and beyond; I start to translate the other pages.

By the time I have nothing left to translate in the part of the site our section was assigned, (some of the stuff was already done) it’s eleven twenty-three. I close my laptop really slowly and wave to the cleaning crew that comes in as I go out. 

I walk down the hallway at a speed that’s casual, but slower than I would usually do. I don’t see anyone-the workday in this section ended five hours ago, so that makes sense. 

When I take a turn that should take me to the elevators, I hear footsteps. Relatively light, but fast and agitated. A girl or woman, not wearing heels, who is in a bad mood. Followed by another woman who is in heels. Great. She’s probably tired, too.

When I turn the corner, I make sure to cross to the opposite side of the one she is passing on. I don’t want to run into her and make her mood worse.

I turn the corner, and standing next to the double elevators is a girl. The girl I saw earlier, actually, pacing back and forth, her blond hair cut sharply at her shoulder rippling with her movements. She’s wearing the same clothes as earlier, so I assume she hasn’t left.  
There’s a woman behind her-a redhead-wearing a very nice suit-that’s Virginia Potts. 

I take this in stride, literally. I keep moving as planned, tapping the button for the elevator as they start arguing, stopping the girl’s pacing (was her name Sophia? She gave me a nickname…).  
“You can’t stay up all night!” Virginia argues, her hand motions as sharp as her expression.  
“She might not be okay!” the girl argues. Spark, was it...yes, it was something about electricity, and it started with the same letter as her actual name…  
I stand awkwardly by the elevator, occasionally glancing at them like any polite but curious teen would do. The girl looks exhausted, if I’m being honest. She’s wearing an earpiece, and judging by their conversation, I don’t think it’s telling her good news.  
“You can’t help her!” Mrs. Potts says, stopping Spark from escaping down the stairs with one hand pushing her shoulder up against the wall firmly. “Your friend already has that Jack boy, and it’s not safe for you to go out at this time of night!”  
“Well, what about her? Shay’s going!” Spark points at me angrily, clearly wanting to use me as an excuse. I look at her, surprised, as Mrs. Potts turns to me angrily.  
I stiffen slightly as Mrs. Potts’ gaze lands on me, as harsh and angry as a forest fire. (Please don’t hurt me, I don’t want it, no-please, no-don’t tell them, don’t tell-JAMES!) I get the sudden impulse to stand at attention, to go blank, to not react. To cower in my own special way.

I ignore it the best I can just standing up straighter and putting my hands behind my back, which makes the panic die down only a little.  
“Ma’am?” I ask nervously. She gets three feet away from me, her high heels clicking on the tile, before she responds.  
“And don’t think I approve of you, either. It’s eleven at night! Don’t you have school? You need to sleep!” she says. My arms tighten behind me as I fight to remain unsuspicious. I cannot fail this. “What were you even doing?”  
“Mr. Bell asked me to continue translating after hours,” I say, straightening even more. My eyes lock forward, not down (don’t disrespect her, she’ll hurt, don’t-) and not up (don’t ignore her, don’t make yourself higher, she’ll-).

Mrs. Potts stops. “Are you okay?” she asks, “I can make Alexander go away, he’s been on the chopping block for months. Why don’t you stay here? It’s dark out, it’s not safe.”  
It’s not safe for me because of a reason completely different than she thinks.  
“Ma’am-” I start, both relieved and terrified of what they’ll do if I don’t report, “I really can’t-”  
“Of course you can,” Mrs. Potts says, taking one of my arms and leading me gently with her. I stiffen so much she can barely manage it, but I let her pull me along. She takes Spark’s arm more firmly and drags us both up to the elevator, which is now opening.  
“Jarvis, penthouse, please, I have to talk to Tony,” she says to nobody, dragging us both into the small silver box. I stiffen even more, terror filling every pore of my body, despite the fact that nothing’s happening, but oh, God, they’re going to be so mad. 

I close my eyes, trying to get my bearings, before opening them again when that makes me feel totally and completely out of control. As if my ability to see is what’s keeping me alive. 

My eyes go to the windows. They’re open, like I noticed earlier, to the skyline. There’s plenty of places in the surrounding rooftops where a sniper could sit and calmly gun us down. 

Mrs. Potts only has to glance at me to know something’s not right, says a voice in the back of my head, You need to fix something. You’re not convincing.

The fault is the way I’m not acting. Some of the way I’m doing things-that’s me coming through. 

Time to stop that.

I smooth my stance out, my posture loosening slightly, my polite smile returning. Spark watches this happen with slight shock, which I do not understand, but it’s not important. (Her chance of attacking me is very low, she has no easily accessible weapons, and she has seemed human so far.) 

Mrs. Potts turns to me when the doors open again, presumably to speak, because her mouth is open and she took a breath, but she stops when she sees me.  
I decide this is a moment that I can butt in. “Really, ma’am, I can go home fine, I should be getting home to my mama-”  
My voice cuts itself off with another memory. Black hair, shaky hands, badly applied lipstick. Dumplings, still-warm buns, singing. A faint piano melody, dark brown eyes that crinkle around the edges when she sees me. Screaming, crying, limbs that move on their own, flying out to grab me. “No, please, my babies, don’t take my babies away, sir, please.” Sobbing, hands, grabbing, safe, acting, hating, danger, chain link fences and pain and hunger and needles-

“Shay?” Spark asks, searching my face. “Are you okay…?”  
My breathing has sharpened, along with the pain in my head. It was gone a few minutes ago.  
“I’m fine,” I say tensely, “Really.”  
“Nope,” Mrs. Potts says authoritatively, “You’re not.”  
She drags us both out of the elevator. In front of us is a very nice, modern living room. L shaped couch, some sort of fountain tumbling down next to and with a set of stairs, a kitchen made mostly of black marbles and deep brown wood. Mrs. Potts drags us forward without even glancing at any of it.

Spark is still staring at me as we are lead down a short flight of stairs.  
“Tony!” Mrs. Potts calls. There’s a frosted glass wall with a keypad next to a door. She quickly types in the password (97631564) and pulls us forward. “I’m back!”  
“I noticed!” comes a voice from behind a lot of piles of machinery. The entire place is arranged in a kind of circle, all circling around one point showing what looks like holograms. In one corner, there’s a kitchenette and a couch, and in the other is a lot of small robots that roll forward to investigate me.

Mr. Stark’s head pops up from behind what looks vaguely like a car engine.  
“And you tease me for adopting kids!” he says, wiping his hands on an also-dirty cloth as he comes to look at me. “Who is this?”  
“This is Shay Li,” Spark says for me. I look down, apprehensive at the bots a hare's breath from my legs, who are beeping quickly. “She translates stuff.”  
“I do,” I say, unsure what to do now that I’m caged in by Mrs. Potts and robots, “English into German and Chinese, or anyway, really.”  
Mr. Stark nods, tossing his cloth aside. “Don’t mind my bots, they mean well,” he says, making a shooing motion. The small robots quickly roll away.  
Mrs. Potts quickly releases both of us, walking over to Mr. Stark and whispering to him.

I have slightly enhanced hearing, which she doesn’t know, but it means I can hear them talking.  
“Something’s wrong with her, Tony,” Mrs. Potts says. I try not to react, but for some reason, that feels familiar. “I started telling her off for being here so late, and she stiffened right up. And then she smoothed it all out and put on that fake smile.”  
Mr. Stark considers me. “Yeah, I can see that.”  
Mrs. Potts turns back to me. “Okay, Shay, you can call your mom if you need to,” she says, handing me her phone from out of her purse, “Here you go.”

I take the phone and look at it. I can’t exactly call a random number. With a growing feeling of dread, I pull up the call option and dial his number. 

“Hi, mom,” I say immediately, cutting him off. “So sorry I had to stay late. Mrs. Potts found me and insisted I stay the night. You know, because it’s dangerous to go out after dark.”  
His voice is not excited. “Raven, I don’t care. If it helps you complete the mission, you can stay out until two for all I care. Just report back within twenty-four hours.”  
“Of course, mom, I’ll be home by tomorrow night at the latest, I have work here again,” I say, “Will do. Bye.”  
I end the call and hand the phone back to Mrs. Potts. He may or may not have given it a virus, I have no idea.  
“Thanks,” I say, for multiple reasons.  
“Sir,” says the ceiling, “Sorry to interrupt, but there’s a slight problem.”  
“Who’s died?” Mr. Stark asks lightly, turning to a StarkPad on a metal table, which had just lit up.  
“No one has died, air, just a slight concern.”  
“That’s a lot of data, J, you just expect me to read all of this?” Mr. Stark asks while reading the information, his face slowly tightening.  
“Okay, thanks, J,” he says. “I’ll consider it. Handle it how you want.”  
“Of course, sir.”  
Mrs. Potts throws him a look, and he only smiles at her. Spark looks between both of them, and then says, “Um, okay, I’m heading back to my apartment now. Shay can come with me.”

The mission, says the weird part of my brain.  
How about no? I tell it. I have to at least keep to character.

“Yeah, sure, okay,” I say, still glancing away from Spark to look at Mrs. Potts and Mr. Stark occasionally.  
Something’s wrong with her.

Spark leads me to the elevators again. This time, we head down, and when the doors open, I see a strange hallway. One door is plain and white, just with a holographic sign announcing it as Spark’s. The other is blue and red, with black webs all over it.

Either whoever has that room is a giant Spider-Man fan, or they are just straight up Spider-Man. 

Well, I am standing in Avengers Tower. Why not?

I don’t question it, but I do let Spark take the lead. She walks ahead and casually opens the door, no keypad or lock. Just a doorknob. 

She leads me into a very impressive apartment type thing. It starts with a small entry hall and then continues into a large room that is both a living room and a kitchen. I glance at the wall of windows nervously, but quickly glance back at Spark in the hope that that will make me calm down. It does not. 

Spark looks at the ceiling. “Hey, J, are there other bedrooms in this place? If not, does at least one of these couches pull out? Shay needs somewhere to crash.” (So she doesn’t know the floorplan, that means this is a relatively new thing to her. Also, didn’t she say today was her first? Who is she to Mr. Stark and Mrs. Potts to immediately get something like this?)  
I blink. I could just sleep on the floor. I’ve done it before. (For some reason, I don’t remember how I know this. I just know that I know it.) 

“There are five bedrooms within your apartment, Miss Dillon,” J says (Jarvis?). “I’m lighting up a path to the closest one.”

The floor lights up. I stare at it, and then watch a line of similar lights light up to create a path. “C’mon,” Spark says, walking forward. 

The hallway we walk into is painted a light shade of teal, a bit to the green side. The color compliments the brown hardwood floor. It’s lined with white trim and white doors with silver handles.

One door is lit up as well, and Spark takes the handle without hesitation. I automatically fall into step behind her, which for some reason gives me the thought that if there’s a shooter in that room, she would take the bullets.

And then I get the urge to move in front of her. Which I do not understand, and therefore ignore. 

The room is nice. Soft purples and blues on the bed, accented by white sheets. A white desk and bookcase, a purple couch next to a lamp and the windows. A closet on the opposite wall on an entire wall full of windows. 

I stare at them, and then move forward to close the curtains. When I start to tug on them, they close automatically. I assume that is the male voice in the ceiling doing the work. The soft blue curtains close quickly, and the purple edges come together smoothly to completely block any light. 

I stare at them. “Thanks,” I tell the curtains, or maybe the male voice in the ceiling.  
“You’re welcome, Miss Li,” J says, “I am Jarvis, Master Stark’s personal AI. I run everything in the tower from the automatic curtains to the private servers.” 

“Cool,” I say blankly. I turn back around to Spark, running my hands down the curtains as I go.  
“Are these bulletproof?” I ask, feeling the coarseness of the cloth. Before I had just the goal of out of sight, out of mind, but now I think they might actually be able to take a bullet.  
“Indeed, Miss Li,” Jarvis answers. His voice sounds slightly concerned, as if this is an odd question that he’s answering. I can’t think of a reason that it wouldn’t be an okay question until I remember most people aren’t afraid of being shot every time they step in front of a window, and that I need to act right now.

"Shay, my pearl, it is dangerous out," she told me, a smile on her face. For some reason, memory-me finds this strange, but young-me loves it a lot. I am now old enough to realize this smile contains a lot of emotion, and that not all of them are happy ones. "No one will trust you with the looks I have given you. Not here, not in Germany."

"You must act, sweetheart, pearl. Play dirty. Use every trick you can think of. Because, maus, those who cheat survive, they win. You can forget every ancient proverb I have ever told you, but please, you have to survive."

I come back to myself with the sharp pain in my head back and something warm trickling down my face. The man in the ceiling is continuously saying my name (“Miss Li, Miss Li, Miss Li,”) and Spark is worriedly scanning my face.

“I was in Germany,” I whisper, confused and startlingly open. (Close, don’t give them anything, no-)

This doesn’t do great things for Spark’s level of confusion and worry, which goes from ‘high’ to ‘what-the-she-needs-help-oh-my-God’.  
“Can I touch you?” she asks. My mind finally catches up as the warmth drips onto my clothes, and I reach down and realize the warmth is red blood. I follow the trail up to my nose.

I shake my head quickly. (No touching-no-pain-bad-) I follow my instincts, and in an almost flawless motion that I have no memory of learning, I tilt my head up and pinch the bridge of my nose. As I do, a pang of almost annoyance flares up, like the kind I got when my coffee was just a bit too hot this morning. As if this wasn’t ideal, but was common and not really a big deal.

“Does it hurt?” she asks. I nod just slightly, not enough to mess with whatever it is that I’m doing with my face. More of a slight bobbing motion using the entirety of my body that anything. 

“Is it inside your skull?” she asks, almost hesitant. I can practically hear her praying for a nose bleed, a perfectly normal thing.

Oh. I’m acting. 

I shake my head, which is a lie that the man in the ceiling does not buy. “Miss Li,” he says, almost cautiously, “I have taken a preemptive medical scan. It appears your brain is…”  
There’s a pause in which a diagram pulls up, presumably of my brain. The picture is fuzzy and indistinct, but Spark narrows her eyes at it like it’s bad. J helpfully highlights much of my brain in shades of fun-looking red, oranges, and yellows.  
“Well, it appears your brain is doing something that is right now not considered medically possible,” J says, still tentatively. “Well the intense damage you appear to have is worrying, it also appears to be-well, it appears to be healing.”  
Spark stares at the diagram, making it spin slowly with a slow motion of her hand. “That’s impossible,” she says slowly, as if the majority of her brain power is not on her words, “There’s no such thing as neurons healing themselves. Well, there’s a theory that they do, but this damage-by the way, how are you walking and talking? This damage would take away the cells ability to heal themselves, even at the really slow rate they do it at. And the stem cells-they can’t transition this fast. Stuff like this-you just don’t fully recover from it. That’s why brain damage and polio are so awful, this stuff doesn’t just heal like this.”  
“I have notified Mrs. Potts and Master Stark of the problem. Mrs. Potts asked me to tell you to not move and that she would be here soon. Master Stark said something to the same effect, just more colorfully.” 

My annoyance and the slight desperation to put on an act crumbles in the face of a weird amount of panic. My mind flashes to images of brain doctors coming at me with knives and threats, and my throat closes up. My hand flies away from my face, I snap my gaze down and around, and Spark puts her hands up placatingly. If they get here, there will be doctors. Mind doctors. (Hurt, pain, bad, straps, can't move, blades, lights, too bright, pain, zzzzzap-)

“Hey, um, Shay-” she says. I consider the window (why did I not run through plans earlier, stupid-), then decide that even for me, the fall is a little much. Sixty stories isn’t anything to scoff at. 

The door is unlocked and likely unlethal, but the elevator may be stopped or slowed by Mr. Stark and the stairs would definitely be slow, unless I just wanted to fall sixty stories inside the building instead. 

The vent closest to me is in the ceiling. It merges well with the ceiling panels-of course Tony Stark would think to upgrade the vents, I can barely see it-and whirls slightly. It has an almost liquid look to it, as if the vent was incroperal and just covering up for a hole in the ceiling air is softly flowing through. 

The ceiling is low enough for me to be able to jump it. Assuming I don’t break my hand/wrist/arm opening the thing, I could feasibly swing up into the vent with only a pull up and some acrobatics.

I launch myself upwards, something the still-rambling Spark was not expecting. She’s too slow to grab me to stop me as I fly upwards, smacking the ceiling panel with one hand. My other waits until the split second between vent and no vent has passed before grabbing hold. The edge of the vent is sharp, for some reason, and I feel the sting of a cut, but I ignore it. 

I pull myself up with one arm, swing up and over, and begin to crawl as quickly as the tiny space allows me.

I’m surprised this thing took my weight. Most vents wouldn’t, but this is Tony Stark’s vent, and it is therefore not allowed to be silly things like breakable or weak. 

For some reason, my body knows how to crawl through a vent without making a sound. My limbs spread out to the edges of the small space, and I hold myself around two inches off of the base of the vent. I slowly move forward like this, one limb at a time so I can pick it up instead of making noise sliding it across anything. My breathing evens out, and suddenly everything about me is silent.

Huh. Apparently, I have experience here. How concerning. 

Spark is yelling behind me, but I’m already somewhere around the edge of the room, so it’s not that bad. For some reason, a lot of emotions respond, though.

Panic is a large percentage (hurt me no no bad no pain no). So is both guilt and betrayal, or maybe something in-between (she was my friend, now she hates me, just becuase I panicked and jumped in a vent, idiot-) (where am I even going? Should I report now?) (NO!).

Where should I go? (I’m not reporting, I can’t-won’t-can’t-)

Black coffee. Silver spoon. Nice girl with caramel skin and chocolate hair.

\---


	4. Character Guide

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A guide to all the characters I know will be in the story. May be updated as the story continues, I'll warn you when I post the chapter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I’m going to need people’s opinions on this. First of all, if you want more info on the characters. Second, I’ve been writing this fix for a while before I started posting it. So I have around 31 thousand words (including those already posted) sitting in a doc I’m updating. I want to know if I should publish it now and have updates posted really slowly over time or if I should just post semi regularly over time while I write.

Main group- (the ones who are friends because they’re idiotic superheroes and love each other to death)

Sophia “Spark” Dillon (superhero name: Super Shock)  
Age: sixteen  
Sexuality/romantic preference: asexual, heteroromantic  
Pronouns: she/her (cis)  
Appearance: her skin is genetically tanned ish but she hardly ever sees the sun so that but like low battery. She has blond hair in this kind of dramatic cut to her shoulders. Grey-brown eyes. Average height. Slightly muscular from being a superhero but slightly less than the others because she sometimes helps Iz, the AI she made with Ember, as Iz keeps them all alive like Jarvis does for Tony and also has less time than the others for superheroing.  
Powers: can conduct and create electricity using her skin. (This makes her more sensitive to shocks in return.)  
Description: lives with her dad. Her father is working multiple minimum wage jobs to keep them above the poverty level. Spark does her best to help out. She wants to become a doctor but is also very good at coding and hacking. She’s an insomniac and has the mental health issues partially addressed in the first chapter that forces her to run herself ragged and feeds her insomnia. Dating Ray and closest otherwise to Bryn and Ember. 

Raymond “Ray” Anderson (superhero name: Relit)  
Age: seventeen  
Sexuality/romantic preference: pansexual and panromantic  
Pronouns: he/him (cis)  
Appearance: tanned skin because he occasionally sees the sun. Works out beyond being a superhero because he’s a model, which is also why he’s super thin. Blond hair that’s shaved on both sides and long on top. Light brown eyes.  
Powers: can move and solidify light, works best with sunlight. Can only do this within fifteen feet or so.  
Description: Grew up in one of those Christian cult type things (you know the ones that like have weird, strict rules and follow pretty much the entirety of the Bible) and was essentially thrown out for kissing a boy in all of his pan glory. Legally emancipated so he can own the apartment he shares with Jack’s two boyfriends. Due to his lack of schooling until he was almost sixteen, he can’t do a lot of career paths, so he chose to model to try to make some money while he tries to become a chef. Dating Spark, closest otherwise with Brooke. 

Jack Lindsey (superhero name: Jagged Frostbite)  
Age: sixteen  
Sexuality/romantic preference: homosexual, homoromantic, polyamorous  
Pronouns: he/him (cis)  
Appearance: white hair that is generally left to be a mess. Skin as white as it can get. I’m talking ‘he could shade match with a price of paper’ white. Dark grey eyes. Tall dude, little lanky but makes up for it with the muscles he’s gained as a superhero.  
Powers: can create ice in around a ten-foot bubble around him. Think Frozone but like less ice at once, pasty af, and saying weird jokes more.  
Description: likes fencing and architecture. Wants to be an architect, which is about all the plans he has. Says a ton of jokes and puns, mostly at the wrong time. Lives with his mom after his dad was murdered when he was a kid. Best friends with Star and dating Archer and Julian (non-superheroes, mentioned later down). 

Petal Hill (Superhero name: Perfect Bloom)  
Age: sixteen  
Sexuality/romantic preference: just goes on whether or not she has a crush. Doesn’t bother caring otherwise.  
Pronouns: Petal is gender fluid. Mostly goes between female and non-binary but occasionally male too. So she/her/he/him/they/them, depending. Wears bracelets to let everyone else know how to refer to them. (If they’re not within sight, they/them pronouns unless in front of a transphobic jerk.)  
Appearance: brown skins from Indian descent. Brown eyes and hair to her shoulders that’s dyed light pink. Slightly taller than average.  
Powers: can make existing plants grow really fast and unrealistically large. Thus always has packets of seeds on her.  
Description: if she’s your friend, she is kind of overprotective of you. She will punch anyone that hurts you. Don’t worry about it. She wants to be a fashion designer and a hairdresser. She was given up for adoption at birth, so she’s currently trying to get a business off the ground when she tailors clothes for trans people and does their hair before she ages out of the system. Dating Onyx and is very cuddly and romantic and soft with him. Likes FOB and Panic! @ the Disco a lot, can’t be found without earbuds. 

Onyx Moore (superhero name: Nyx) (Past legal name: Crystal)  
Age: barely sixteen  
Sexuality/romantic preference: dating a gender fluid person, so pan???  
Pronouns: he/him (trans) (AFAB)  
Appearance: skinny African American trans boi trying his best to cover his body with overly large sweaters and binders. Shaved black hair and dark brown eyes. Shorter than the average.  
Powers: can move earth around him in a ten-foot bubble. Includes metal and rocks, not just dirt and clay and stuff. The more natural, the more control he has.  
Description: the artist of the group-writes songs and plays the drums, sometimes paints like his mom. Comes from the Deep South and moved to NYC with his mom after he came out so he could transition more easily and for the job opportunities. Loves music and writing it but refuses to sing his songs until he gets T and his voice deepens. Loves his black converse far too much, tbh, but so do I so shush. Dating Petal and gets all blushy whenever they get mushy but loves it. Soft™.

Star Spiral (Superhero name: Starlight)  
Age: seventeen  
Pronouns: she/her/they/them (bigender) (AFAB)  
Sexuality/romantic preference: mostly likes girls but occasionally also guys. I would say homoflux but she’s not entirely female, so.  
Appearance: light blue eyes, skin somewhere between olive and pale. Tall, with long straight black hair that is usually in a ponytail. Kind of pointy nose.  
Powers: can move air in a fifteen-foot bubble around her and thus can fly and stuff.  
Description: wants to become a politician like her mom was before she died a little more than a year before this started. Good at public speaking and confident even when everything is literally falling apart. Likes reading and history the most out of her classes, despises gym. Tries dating Ember a bit back but they split (as close friends) because their personalities didn’t work together. Currently single. The mom friend. A Hufflepuff, maybe Gryffindor. Ready for cuddles at all times, gives excellent hugs. Mostly hugs Brooke because she is also a cuddle bug. In her SGA. Best friends with Jack. 

Ember Collins (superhero name: Ever Flame)  
Age: seventeen  
Pronouns: She/her (cis)  
Sexuality/romantic preference: a raging lesbian. But she did like Star so like??? Maybe not, who knows anymore???  
Appearance: red kind of wavy hair. Rosy cheeks that went ahead and claimed her nose for the redness as well. Pale skin, has more moles than average. Large feet, average height. Broad shoulders, biceps for days. Amber eyes.  
Powers: can create flames from her skin and superheat the area immediately around her. Her skin goes see-through when she does this and you can see fire underneath the skin, but its not burning her, just chilling. Kind of creepy to look at, tho.  
Description: has a twin brother named Coal who is mentioned later and is not idiotic enough to be a superhero. Her mom is a movie star that’s uper rich and uper busy. Doesn’t really know her mom that well because of it, but has plenty of money to throw at her friends and slip in their pockets. Engineering genius, likes building stuff and designing things. Plays the violin to calm down and in her school orchestra. A little bit of a temper but usually fine as long as no one is insulted in front of her (in that case: RIP). Concerns people sometimes when she doesn’t wear gloves that protect her from the heat when she’s welding or working with hot metal. Bipolar and handles it with meds. Closest friends with Star, Spark, and Bryn.

Brooke King (superhero name: Blue Wave)  
Age: sixteen  
Pronouns: she/her (cis)  
Sexuality/romantic preference: bi. Chooses to be bi instead of pan simply because she likes the bi flag more.  
Appearance: dark brown skin (Mexican-American), freckles all over her body. Dark brown eyes. Hair that is that type of curly that there is almost no hope for and should never be touched with a comb. Smol, a nugget who is way shorter than average. Does gymnastics on top of superhero shenanigans, so that type of body. You know it just add a little more fat because her family runs a bakery and why would she waste the food they can’t sell???  
Description: a fluff bean. Helps her mom out with the store the most, and plans to take over the bakery after her Mama. Twin names Bryn who is non-binary and who she loves more than life. Likes to sing and is humming most of the time. One of those kids that aren’t book smart but puts a ton of effort into school anyway. Does gymnastics and competes when she has time. Most of her practice comes from flipping around NY at midnight chasing criminals. Loves swimming but doesn’t do it as a sport. If her family had the money, she might become a marine biologist, but they don’t, and she loves the bakery, so she settles so Bryn can go to college and become a chemical engineer or maybe a glorified mechanic. 

Bryn King (Superhero name: blue tide) (Legal name, not yet changed: Dylan)  
Age: sixteen  
Pronouns: they/them (AMAB)  
Sexuality/romantic preference: mostly boys, the occasional someone else  
Appearance: dark brown skin (Mexican-American), black hair that's cut short except on top where it is a curly dyed green mess that they don't do more than wash. Freckles all over, but strongest on their face and hands. Dark brown eyes. Short.  
Description: Wants to become either a chemical engineer or a mechanical engineer. Helps out at the bakery but is horrible at baking so is mostly at the cash register, repairing stuff, or cleaning. Is best at chemistry and other science-y things, but also likes math. Scraping through history and ELA. That person who loves museums. Twins with Brooke and would probably die for her, very protective. Wears one blue-grey hoodie for most of their life. Has a crush on a boy named Ryker who’s one of the goth kids at his school. 

Shay Li  
Age: ????  
Pronouns: she/her (cis)  
Sexuality/romantic preference: *screaming*  
Appearance: olive skin, rounded nose, long straight black hair. Mother is from China, and she takes after her. Strong and has a lot of faint scar tissue all over her body, sometimes mistaken for birthmarks. Eyes that are almost black.  
Description: a heavily traumatized genius. The rest is plot, so sorry.

The other ones-

Archer Matthews  
Age: sixteen  
Pronouns: he/him (cis)  
Sexuality/romantic preference: gayyyyyyy, polyamorous  
Appearance: light brown skin. Messy brown hair that he keeps relatively short but otherwise leaves alone. Light green eyes. Lorge legs because he fit, my dude. Trying his best at a beard.  
Description: Trying his Best™, but not very book smart. Likes the outdoors, hiking, kayaking, climbing trees/rocks that are far too tall, etc. Wants to be a park ranger when he’s older. Wears jeans most of the time, but also wears cargo shorts (he mostly stopped after Petal nearly cried every time they looked at him). Confident, that one dude who wears muddy boots and sneakers almost everywhere because none of his shoes are ever clean. Plays the guitar and sings (not that good at it but it makes Jack melt). Dating Julian and Jack.

Juilian Griffiths  
Age: sixteen  
Pronouns: He/him (cis)  
Sexuality/romantic preference: gayyyyyyyyyyyyy, polyamorous  
Appearance: the darkest skin can get, basically. Has a light-shade birthmark going from his neck/shoulder to his belly button that he is very self-conscious about. Black long curly hair that he usually puts in a man bun or uses to strategically cover his birthmark. Gentle giant, he is a tall boi.  
Description: Likes reading a lot and recommends books to basically anyone who talks to him. Likes reading about ancient myths and stuff a lot. Doesn’t know what he wants to do after high school. He’s thinking about becoming a historian or editor for some publishing company. Kind of shy. The type to silently give you a hug and then leave with no explanation whatsoever. Cuddles only mostly when sad or really sleepy. 

Coal Collins  
Age: seventeen  
Pronouns: he/him (cis)  
Sexuality/romantic preference: he is the one straight boy here  
Appearance: amber eyes. Red wavy hair that he just parts to one side, combs, and leaves alone. Also has the rosy cheeks that don’t know boundaries that Ember has. Average height.  
Description: he mostly likes painting and music. Has pretty much turned his room into a giant mural and is slowly making the entire mansion he lives in with his mom and his twin, Ember, into a collection of various paintings. So far, he’s taken over the entry hall, his room, parts of the kitchen, the stairs, and four separate hallways. Would rather lose a limb than stop painting most days, detests school. Sings but don’t tell anyone shhhhhh.

Alexandria Collins  
Age: forty-six  
Pronouns: she/her (cis)  
Sexuality/romantic preference: straight and has yet to get married, bedding any hot guy that’s willing  
Appearance: amber eyes, wavy red hair, pale skin, but no rosy cheeks. A model, so that body type Hollywood likes so much in women. Rarely (if ever) seen without makeup and her hair done.  
Description: serial romantic and bipolar. Actress and model, had kids on accident and had to change her career around it. Loves her kids and is protective of them but is also so busy that she can’t really parent them and she also doesn’t know how to show love. Stressed 24/7 but pretends it’s not happening until she has a mental breakdown.


	5. Coffee Shop Conversations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shay goes to the one safe place she remembers and meets a few people.

I don’t know how long it’s been since I saw the little bakery I’m currently standing across the street from. I know it was winter last time, and it is clearly spring or summer, from what I’ve seen. I don’t know if it’s been months or years, but I hope the girl is still here.

The bakery is definitely the one I remember. I can see the table I sat at through the window, if I look past a pile of students and backpacks. The entire place has an aura of familiarity, but I don’t remember any of it. 

The front door has ‘King’s Bakery’ written across it in cursive, with the text ‘baked goods from around the world; requests welcome (bring a recipe)!’ below it. In the very corner, there’s a small rainbow sticker with the words ‘this is a safe space for the LGBT’ written on it. There’s small paintings of various baked goods at the bottom of the window, almost obscuring worn wooden boards.

I start walking across the street with the rest of the crowd of people. When I get to the bakery’s door, I surprise myself by not hesitating before pushing the door open. The warmth and smells roll over me as a bell announces my appearance. From behind the counter, a boy with curly hair dyed blue-green and skin the same color as the girl’s looks up.  
“Oh! Hey!” he says. “I didn’t think I would see you again!”  
“Hello,” I say. He suddenly has a double-take, hesitating.  
“You’re bleeding,” he says, moving around the counter towards me. I pause myself. I had forgotten about the blood. It must have dried by now. The boy takes my face, which causes a large amount of panic (no hurt no don’t touch no), but his touch is so gentle that I only stand as stiff as a board instead of yanking away. 

It may or may not also have been because I was terrified what his reaction would be. (Don’t offend, no, do you want pain?)

He notices quickly and his hands fly from my face. “Sorry, I won’t touch you again,” he says, looking incredibly apologetic (why is he sorry, no one is ever sorry, everyone touches). I’m so confused that I don’t respond while he goes to get a towel. He comes back with a damp rag, which he hands to me.  
I take is hesitantly, completely unsure what to do with it.  
“You can use it to wipe your face,” he says calmly. “It’s clean.”  
I stare at the thing. It’s red and dripping water into my hand, but it does appear clean. “But I’d stain it.”  
(Don’t make him mad, don’t stain anything-)

“I’m sure if I didn’t know how to wash out stains I would have been thrown out by now,” the boy says. I can’t remember his name, which I don’t like. I am also unsure if he said that as a joke or not. I tentatively raise the rag to my face and swipe gently. 

The boy smiles at me. “Just in case you don’t remember me, I’m Bryn,” he says. “I’m non-binary, so they/them pronouns, please.”  
I take in their gentle smile, the way they stopped touching me almost immediately, the rag that still is in my hand, and nod slowly. “I’m Shay,” I offer. The thought hits me that that may not actually be my name, or Li, for that matter, but at the thought of a different name, my mind rebels, so I think it’s right. At least I have that. 

“Nice to meet you again!” they say, still smiling. “Hold on, I’ll grab Brooke, she’ll want to see you again.”  
And with that, they’re gone. I watch them hurry off, unsure whether I’m allowed to sit or not. I move out of the doorway so no customers would be blocked, but I’m unsure still. 

The students are staring at me from my pile of bean bags.  
“What happened to you?” one girl with a tiny frame and black skin asks. She’s wearing a too-big sweater and slightly baggy jeans. Her chest is flat, so I make the note that she may be trans and wearing a binder.  
“A lot,” I say simply, taking in the bruising just left uncovered by her sweater and the way her shaved head leaves a cut going across her scalp exposed. The girl tilts her head.  
“If someone’s hurting you,” she says slowly, as if choosing her words slowly, “You don’t have to tell any of us, but you can if you want. We can probably help, one way...or another.”

The girl is sitting next to a white boy with blond hair that is shaved on the sides, but not on top. His gelled hair moves slightly as he nods, but mostly stays in place. There’s also a girl with fiery red hair, a rounded face, and rosy cheeks (the color also hides in her nose, sprawling across her face in a way that is reminiscent of a sunburn, but the red is not harsh enough for that). Her eyes are fiery in a calmer way than her hair, but it has the quiet rage I know could burn things as easily as warm them.  
“Okay,” I say. I have no rules in my head to follow for this conversation.  
“I’m Onyx,” she says, “He/him pronouns.”  
“Shay, she/her,” I say in kind, sitting at a table that is relatively close to them.  
“Cool,” Onyx says. “The girl is Ember, the dude next to me is Ray. They’re both cis.”  
“Okay,” I say again. 

Fast footsteps. Echoing, as if in a small hallway. Two sets, one stepping significantly lighter than the other, but neither heavy in any way. They are both walking fast. (Come to hurt you, hide, don’t let them-) (They’ll hurt you worse if you do that, no, just take it-)

“Hey!” comes an excited female voice. I turn around to see the girl with curly hair from my blurry memory, smiling just as brightly as she was before. Her hair is a little longer, as if she just forgot to cut it, so it’s probably the same year as the time I saw her last. That’s also supported by the fact that these two remember me. 

“Hi,” I say, smiling at her.  
“Bryn said you came in with a bloody nose, are you good?” she asks, sitting down at my table. Bryn leaves to help another customer coming in the door (blond business woman, not a likely threat, and would be hindered by her high heels if she tried to chase me).  
“I’m fine,” I say, hoping it’s true. My mind reminds me of a brain scan highlighted in reds and oranges and yellows, and I forcefully ignore it. “Just a nosebleed.”  
“That’s good,” Brooke says. “Do you still like black coffee? I can get you one. And you said you liked chocolate, right? We have a lot of chocolatey things.”  
“Dark chocolate,” my mouth says automatically. My brain scrambles to attach a memory to this fact, but it comes up blank. At least my mouth seems sure of itself. “Unsweetened is best, or as close you can get to it.”  
Brooke nods, getting up. “Cool. I’ll get you some brigadeiros, they’re just cocoa powder, some sweetened condensed milk, and butter rolled in sprinkles, they should be fine.”  
“Thanks,” I tell her retreating back. She just waves without looking behind her, her hair swishing behind her with the movement. 

Onyx looks up at me again. He was talking to Ray in quiet tones that I wasn’t focusing on, but the tone remained consistently positive, so it should be okay.  
“I like chocolate a lot, too,” he says, fiddling with the hem of his large sweater. “I like mine sweetened, though.”  
“You Americans usually do,” I say, surprising myself, “I’m German, and growing up, I did not have sugar in everything. We had desserts, of course, but they were separate. You Americans seem to just eat sugar at any time. I find I usually like the less sugary things. Black coffee. Dark chocolate.”

Where are these words coming from? My soul? Is my tongue just making them up spontaneously? No, they have a ring of truth to them. Maybe I should just start babbling to myself to reclaim old information, if not the memories attached to them. 

“Hey, that’s pretty cool,” Onyx says. “Do you guys really eat a ton of sausages over there? And drink beer a lot?”  
My memory is still full of spiderwebs and error messages, so I just...let my mouth do the talking. Which means I needed to stop thinking over every action, so I stopped feeling as secure without it, my security blanket of paranoia.  
“I don’t know, I think it’s just that most people choose beer over wine? Or something? I left when I was fifteen, so I wasn’t exactly drinking yet.”  
Onyx nods. “Still pretty cool. Who’d you move here with?”

“GET AWAY FROM ME!” Darkness, hunger, needles, hatred, pain, fire inside my veins and burning my skin, water slowly dripping onto my head, staring straight ahead, remember Mama, remember Blake, big brother, God, Blake, he’s probably dead by now, when will I be?

A face that looks almost like Blake’s, but wrong. Too old. Has a beard. Hair just a bit too shaggy. The forehead a little too large, the ears tucked against the skull just more than he had.  
“Ready to comply, sir.”

“A...distant relative,” I tell him. “He...wanted me in America with him.”  
Onyx nods. “Did you leave family behind?”

Blake’s hand, calling for mine. “Kleine schwester!” The red dripping from his nose, the desperation dripping from his body, the guards holding him back. “Get in line!” 

“LET HIM GO!” I screamed. I kicked a large man in the back of the knees. 

“Bring her with, she’s strong enough to work!” 

“Yeah,” I say, sitting more stiffly in my chair. “Mama and my big brother.”  
“That must suck,” Onyx says. “How old is your brother? You sound like you love him a lot.” 

Blake, celebrating his seventeenth birthday in the small space under the floorboards of the basement. He’s been here for weeks, only being let out for food and water. The rest of the time, he hides in silence and fear. I am only able to see him in the dead of night, my boarding school uniform on under the covers so that if I am caught, I wouldn’t die in the mandated nightdress. 

Mama is gone. I curl up around Blake instead and whisper a congratulations, hugging him tight to me. I leave far too late to get a good night’s sleep in the dorm. 

The next day, the floorboards curl up to hostile faces. And we are both dragged away.

I’m in my nightgown, fighting tooth and claw.

“Seventeen,” I say. Onyx must not notice the way I keep freezing up, or maybe he just thinks I’m revisiting fun memories of hugs and laughter.

Gentle piano music, Mama’s voice singing along with it. Laughter as I try to follow her movements, clunking along on the keys. “No, baby, like this, see, maus? Just place your hands on mine, and you can do it!” 

Blake handing me an herb paste to go over my nine-year-old face’s black eye, smiling sadly. “It’s okay, maus, it will get better soon. Ignore the bullies, they can’t do much more than yell and flail.”

Reminders of Mama’s home in soup made of the meat the butcher can’t sell to anyone else. Chicken feet, which Mama loves. Other cuttings, if he can spare them, and veggies soaked in the herb broth Mama always makes.

Mama smiles, her eyes crinkling at the edges.

I smile gently.

Brooke hustles back with a cup of black coffee and a bag full of small, round chocolates covered in sprinkles. I smile at her and take a sip of the drink. I ignore the way the shallow cut on my hand stings, because it is not that deep and it stopped bleeding halfway here. 

“Thanks.” Brooke smiles at me and starts chattering in a way that is somehow soothing. I decide I like her as I drink my coffee. I end up staying for far longer than I probably should have, but who cares much?


	6. Well, Okay

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shay figures out life the best she can. 
> 
> To pillsandcoffee because they’ve commented on every chapter and I love them a lot. <3333

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Triggers-  
> Alcohol  
> Guns  
> Shooting  
> Attempted killing  
> Gangs  
> Drinking

Tony Stark was the meaning of panic when he watched the video of Shay hopping into that vent. He was sprinting to the apartment, brain damage flashing through his mind, when Jarvis pulled it up. His face paled and he ran faster, skidding into the room too late anyway.

Spark turned to me, panicked. “She ran away!” she says, her hands shaking slightly as they run through her hair. Pepper got there fifty-two seconds later, her heels in hand and her feet bare. She flies into the room like a hurricane, and spotting the blood on the edge of the vent, her winds get faster. 

“Will she die without help?” she demands, spinning to pin Spark down under her gaze.  
“The-her brain was healing,” Spark manages.  
Pepper nods and goes to investigate the vent further.  
“Ma’am, I don’t think she’s fully human,” Spark admits, which makes both of us spin to her.  
“What?” I demand, walking closer to her instead of worrying from by the door. “Why?”

Spark hesitates, and JARVIS helpfully pulls up the scan of Shay’s brain, still overlayed with highlights of red and orange and yellow. Spark glances at it nervously, her hand coming up to trace the tissues that showed the most signs of regrowth.  
“No one heals like this, not without cutting-edge scientific help,” Spark mutters, her hands running along the yellows, her eyes taking in the holes in the brain with me.

I tap down my panic, trying to squash it into anything helpful. Slightly crazed and or forced genius. Anger, if not the kind that would hurt anyone (I will not become Howard). Anything.

“The human brain is made up of nerves and neurons,” Spark says, almost a whisper. “If a nerve is hit in the right place, it might be able to heal. Very slowly, much slower than this looks to be, but it would heal. That’s possible. But if you hit a neuron-the little part that is like the nucleus of the nerves-that would not heal. There’s a recent plan that would use stem cells to replace the lost ones, but that needs top-of-the-line help and science. This is just straight-up healing itself. That’s...that’s not human.”

“JARVIS,” I say slowly, trying to grasp fully an idea that just came to my mind. “Ask Rogers if he’s ever taken damage to the head.”

A pause that seems to go on for forever. 

“Mr. Rogers reports that he has taken a few hits to the head. He also commented that it was strange how he didn’t show any negative symptoms, but he also added that it was probably an effect of the serum he was injected with.”  
“The serum,” Pepper says blankly. Her face has lost all emotion, which usually means she’s processing something she didn’t see coming.  
“Jarvis…” I say, “Did the government have any other super soldier plans? Test subjects? Mysterious disappearances?”  
“The doctor who created the serum was killed almost immediately and left no trace of his work on paper or otherwise. It is therefore unlikely that this is the work of the American government.”  
“But,” I say, “It’s not impossible that someone saw Steve come out of the ice and said ‘that’s cool, let me go find a minor to test it out on.’”  
“I would also like to comment that there has and likely always will be several organizations that would be willing to do such a thing to a child.”  
Pepper’s face is slowly gaining color, as if she’s about to overload. “Like...AIM. Or HYDRA.”  
“Or a regular group of jerks, but sure,” Spark says. Her hands are still lightly tracing the scan, making Jarvis rotate it with her movements. 

Pepper wipes the blood off the edge of the vent, and the microbots slide back into place immediately. “Jarvis, if I have you test this, what could you possibly get from it?”  
“I am unsure of every effect until I have done it,” J responds, “Please put the blood in my panel by the door.”

Pepper follows his instructions, wiping her hand off on a futuristic looking thing on the wall.

There’s a slight pause. Then another glowing hologram pops up, and there’s a bunch of stuff I don’t understand in a neat little table.  
“Her blood work appears relatively concerning,” Jarvis says. “Signs point to slight malnutrition, high levels of white blood cells and platelets suggest some sort of disease or injury. Otherwise, some hormone levels are normal, while some are far above or below the average.”  
“That’s encouraging,” Spark says, “Her body’s figured out something’s wrong.”  
“Yeah, I didn't interrupt it that way,” I say. I walk forward, taking in the chart and memorizing every bit of it, despite the fact that I don’t understand it. 

I will.

\---

The criminal underworld has not changed much, I learn. I am still on the no-harm list of several major gangs, a status gained through many actions I blurredly remember as I step into the room.

Guns have changed, they are not the ones I remember. My mind offers me pictures in low detail of very stressful times that similar guns have been pointed at me, but I ignore that.

“You know, Miss Li,” says the man lounging in the chair, staring at me almost lazily, “I was not expecting to see you here again.”  
“I have not come here to strike up another deal,” I say, “Not the sort of the last time I came here, at least.”  
“So you have not come here to gain information for an assasination,” the man drawls. My mind and instincts tell me he is dangerous, but I am used to this. “Big deal. What are you here for is the question. Obviously, within reason, I would have to agree; I do owe you a rather large favor.”

My mind’s ability to remember shatters and breaks, so I float onwards in this conversational stream, not even glancing at the rifles that could end me, maybe not quickly, but eventually. 

“I need to disappear,” I say, tilting my head back and putting on my ‘confident’ mask for my excellent performance. The material chafes against my mind, but I ignore the pain. 

The man sits up. “You have left them?”  
“I’m in the process of attempting it.”  
“HYDRA?” he says, “You are trying to throw off HYDRA? That’s impossible-they’re everywhere! The government, online, everyday civilians, everywhere! How do you expect me to make you disappear?”  
“Well,” I say, smiling slightly at him, making my eyes glint in that way no one likes, “The other option is I kill my way out of here.”

The man’s face pales; he knows enough of me to know that is a distinct possibility: even if I didn’t get out of this alive, I would kill as many people that had wronged me on the way out, and who better than one of the most violent gangs in the city?

“I can get you papers. You have a proper name? I can’t exactly put ‘Raven’ in the system.”

I consider him. “Shay Li.”  
He looks tired. “And in exchange?”  
“Your debt is repaid. Just get me citizenship, papers, and the ability to live.”

He licks his lips. “I can do that. Just...not-um, I can’t do that instantaneously.”  
I smile emptily, regally, politely and condescendingly at once. “I can think of a few corrupt men high-up that might be willing to help. How about you try them?”  
HYDRA-they’ve even managed to get into congress. 

The man chokes on air. 

\--- 

Spider-Man intercepts me as I walk. Probably because I am a woman-barely, he looks at me like I’m a girl, which I appreciate, but do not believe-that is well dressed in a very bad part of town. It may also have something to do with the five men trailing me. It used to be eight, but three of them met suspicious and altogether very web-y distractions. 

Otherwise said, I’ve known Spider-Man was following me for four blocks. 

I salute the skyline when the third man disappears with a shout. I am grateful that I do not have to draw attention to myself or cause casualties. 

I get a laugh from a rooftop in response, and suddenly two guys are hanging on webs from a rooftop, and then two more, and then the last poor sucker is webbed to a light pole.

I tap his shoe, testing to see if he is still conscious. He is, if his jerk is anything to judge by. 

“Tell your boss the deal’s off,” I inform the shoe before turning away. Spider-Man has landed, crouched, at the base of the buildings. 

He is much more professional then when he started out in a hoodie and sweatpants. I appreciate the new look almost as much as I appreciate the help. 

And then I catch the ways his eye pieces are not just lenses, but glint like cameras. I become much more masked, sliding on my confident act again.  
“A shame that you work for someone, Spider-Man, you look to me a good man,” I say passively, waiting for it to be okay for me to cross the street. So that’s how he got the suit upgrade. “Whose pocket are you in? I doubt it’s the government, they would have stopped trying to prosecute you.” 

“Um,” Spider-Man says, the voice of a boy just hitting puberty. No wonder he’s so small, he’s probably almost a child. Self-sacrificing, but a child. “I’m-I’m not in anyone’s pocket.”  
I glance over him again. There’s a slight unnatural way to how the suit, now skin tight, stretches over his ears. It bumps out slightly, as if there’s a com in both of his ears.  
“Of course not,” I say in the voice created to placate men, forged in the general rage just before the sting of apathy hits.  
“I-why would you think that?” he asks, clearly confused.  
“How’d you get that new suit?” I ask passively, staring at the other side of the street. “Honestly, it was probably a good decision of yours. Better than the hoodie you were running around in. Just make sure SHIELD stays out of it.”  
“What? Why?”  
I look at him. “The government is not as secure as everyone believes. Corruption, greed, and so on. I am no conspiracy theorist, but I would keep to myself, when it comes to them.”  
“Okay,” he says, clearly not following me.  
“You’re a good person,” I tell him, starting to cross the street. “Don’t let anyone ruin that, Spidey.”

I cross the street, leaving a confused Spider-Man behind. Mentally, I take him off my list of possible help giver-outers. Who could make such a suit but Tony Stark? 

\--- 

I go to one of the many illegal, underground, shady bars in New York. The Crimson Sunset is one of the classiest of the bunch, but that is comparable to being the tallest dwarf. At least they don’t peddle in killings, just turning a blind eye to criminals looking for a drink. 

When I step inside the building, a bubble of silence forms. It quickly consumes the entire bar. 

“We don’t want trouble here,” the bartender tells me. He is young, maybe twenty five, with black hair and a beard that’s just barely grown in enough not to be just stubble.  
“And I’m not looking to give it out,” I say. I walk to the bar, but do not sit down. “Do you still ban HYDRA, here?”  
“Any Nazis can get out,” the man tells me, his grip tightening on a glass. “Including you.”  
I study him. “Do you think super soldiers could get drunk?” I ask, letting my hair fall into my face. A moment of vulnerability.

When did I want this? And why was I so stupid to go to the gang leader? HYDRA doesn’t know that I’m missing yet, I still have an alibi, and now it might be blown. 

I want to forget. Forget my stupidity, my emotions, the people in that bakery, Tony Stark, Pepper Potts, hiding, the way my brain is a broken radio that’s tuned to static. 

The bartender sets the glass down. “Not really,” he says blankly.  
“Shame, I could use the buzz. May I sit?”  
He stares at me, and then rubs his face. “Of course she is,” he mutters. Then he looks back at me.  
“Don’t hurt anyone,” he says. “No killing, maiming, bruising, cutting, or manipulation of any sort.”  
“Or course not,” I say, sitting on the stool. “Let’s test our theory, hmm? I have money to pay for every drop in this bar, don’t worry about that.”  
The man takes a bottle of whisky without looking at it and pours me a glass. The silence turns to a quiet hush, disrupted by whispering. He hands me the glass, and I knock it back in one.  
“How old are you?” he asks, “Are you even legal?”  
“Oh, I’m not legal to drink,” I say, putting the empty cup down. “And I can barely consent.”  
“Seventeen,” he says in a horrified whisper.  
“Yup,” I say. “Can you just give me the bottle?” 

He gives me the bottle. I drink straight from it. 

The bartender stares at me silently, not doing much more than breathing. His face is still horrified.  
“Fascinating that you just know the age of consent, by the way,” I say, taking a sip. “I’m sure you have questions for me. Maybe it will make everyone else pay so much attention, they’ll explode.”

The room is suddenly much louder, but it’s the fake kind where everyone is purposefully making noise. 

“You know a spot where I could get papers?” I ask him, tilting the bottle until the liquid inside it is a tornado of movement. “Passport, citizenship, whatever?”  
The bartender stares at me. Then, slowly, he says, “Man in the corner. His rates are high, but his documents are the most convincing.”  
“Fascinating,” I say. I take another deep drink. I don’t feel the slightest bit buzzed. “How much does this cost?”

I leave with three bottles in my gut, papers in my pocket, and a promise to get the rest of them soon. I leave without a hundred and fifty dollars dollars (ninety of them for the booze and the rest a mixture of a tip and buying silence) and the drunkness I should have, which is disappointing. 

I face New York with eight hundred fifty dollars in my pocket, a need to disappear, and a smile on my face. After all, the fall from grace is always exhilarating, and the freedom that comes after is so close, I can taste it. 

\--- 

I rent an apartment for low rates under a correct name but the wrong age. The woman doesn’t question it, just tells me the room number and floor and takes most of my money for the next three months. This place is way cheaper than the average studio apartment, so I’m not surprised that the paper I sign has a warning or recent murders in the building, along with a suicide in the apartment I’m buying. Also, the floor space is comparable to that of a shoe box, which might help.

The apartment matches the expectations the papers gave me. 

It has one main room, a bathroom, a view of brick walls, and the general space is so small, I could suffocate.

I love it. 

I quickly clean everything using borrowed supplies from next door neighbors and thirty bucks. I wipe down any and all flat surfaces that can be wiped down, sweep and mop, scrape out mold, dust everything, and make sure to get out any and all stains.  
I crush my phone into the dumpster. I can get a burner for cheap later. Before I destroy it, I copy down anything important onto a piece of paper and slip that into my bra. 

I go back to my empty apartment, return the cleaning supplies, and sit on the ground in the main room, just because. I’m living and breathing and thinking and processing, and I’m free. 

The papers to this apartment are kept in a filing cabinet down stairs. I gave the random middle name on my new driver’s license, because I didn’t remember my real one. It’s unlikely anyone will find them unless they break in and physically go through the filing cabinet’s boring paperwork, which seems unlikely to me. The woman who sold me this place was grumpy, but she didn’t attack me and I didn’t recognise her, so she’s probably just busy, not a spy. The other copies of the papers are in my bra, and if someone is getting in there, I’ll skip the niceties and kill the scum. 

There’s so few problems, I’m almost giddy. A disgruntled man who runs a gang but is also so terrified of me I doubt he’ll breathe my name, let alone send anyone with the chance of hurting me. Tony Stark, who has no trails to hack into and follow. That bar, with the bartender who agreed to say nothing with pity in his eyes and a room who silently agreed. 

I decided to go out and buy myself a new phone. It would usually have been around fifty, but I got an okay one for thirty dollars. 

I also buy myself the necessities while I have an alibi against HYDRA. A backpack, which I quickly fill with an extensive medical kit, emergency food and water, clothes, various hygiene products, a towel, a ton of makeup, hair dye, and a blow up cot/mattress that’s small enough for me to carry. The only things I use immediately are a hoodie, a hair tie, and some of the make up. The hoodie’s hood goes up, the makeup goes on thick, and the hair tie goes into a tight ponytail, which tucks into my hood. 

I’m a new person. Who knew I could get little things for my eyes that change them from ‘aisan’ to ‘boring white girl’? Even if I am caught on camera, I won’t be recognised immediately, I hope. 

I go back to my apartment, walking to save money, and order a pizza. I experiment with sausage and pepperoni, and I find I like it. It’s not pizza, not really, but it is delicious. 

I sit in the middle of my empty apartment, eating a not-pizza, sitting next to a bursting backpack, a mattress slowly blowing up five feet away, feeling completely and blissfully normal. 

It’s nice. 

I make myself a resume and make a note to print it at some library tomorrow. I apply electronically to several jobs that seem awful enough that they wouldn’t come with cameras. I play a stupid phone game that is loud and bright and happy and normal. 

Then I go into the notes app and start making notes. Notes of the things I remember.

Family-

Mother-“mama”. Liked to play piano and sing. Made dumplings and rolls and soup. Screaming and crying (?) are associated with memories of her. 

Brother-“Blake”. Older than me, but only by a few years or so. Similar to handler in looks. Gentle, knows how to make an herb paste that keeps swelling and bruising down. (Bullying as a child?) 

“Muas” “perle” 

Germany- probably where I grew up. 

That’s pretty much it. I don’t want to write down the bad stuff. For some reason. I guess that would make it official-none of the stuff I’m writing about exists anymore. 

I know how long it’s been. I know, because I have watched the years and decades and almost a century go by.

I also know none of this exists anymore not because of time but because of cruelty. I don’t understand how, I don’t have a memory that goes with it. Nothing pops up. I just know the people and places I keep thinking about are gone. 

I put my phone in my pocket and eat my not-pizza. The pepperoni is horrible, if I’m being honest, and the sausage is not actually sausage, but it tastes okay. I eat it because I’m hungry. 

It’s definitely not pain that I’m feeling in my stomach, and the only three things I’ve ever heard as input from the stomach is hunger, satisfied, and pain. It’s definitely not pain, and satisfied would be easier to ignore and make less sense, so I’m going with hunger. 

It doesn’t feel normal anymore. I guess that’s on me. 

I just focus on eating my pizza and thinking. I wonder why I ran, earlier today. They might have helped, I guess. Ran some scans. 

At just the idea of it, my entire body revolts. Every atom of me never wants to get near anything vaguely medical ever again, and I don’t know why. 

I have some theories, though. I don’t like them much. 

I move on to Spider-Man. If his suit was really given to him by Mr. Stark, and that sheen in the eye pieces actually was cameras, then that means I left a trail. Only a slight one. I know the boy did not follow me, I made sure. But Stark now knows that I was there and what was going on and how I looked. And Spider-Boy may be looking for me in the future. 

I decide to focus on other things. Things that can be handled right now. Like the hair dye I bought earlier. 

I grab the dye-a deep purple-and head into the bathroom. 

It’s a process, not getting the dye on anything, and I find that’s it’s almost good enough to distract me fully. But I think it’s as good as I’m getting, so I decide to just keep going. 

The dye is in within the hour. I don’t hate it, and certainly will help with hiding. 

I put the not-pizza in the fridge that came with the apartment. It doesn’t feel that cold, so in left the plug and end up plugging it in. The humming noise it makes is familiar and wrong at the same time. 

My phone buzzes. I look at it, slightly concerned on who could have texted me. I kept the number the old phone had, so it could be anyone from the people from the cafe to a very quick Tony Stark, or maybe my handler-

No, my handler wouldn’t give me the warning. 

I pick up my phone and look at it. 

Hey, Shay, this is Brooke! I wanted to see if you were free tomorrow? I’m going to an aquarium tomorrow and Ray bailed so we have an extra ticket

I consider that. An aquarium would have cameras. Do I trust this new look enough to keep Tony Stark and HYDRA out? And even if I do, do I want to do this? What if some memory pulls itself up and I freeze up and pull enough attention to myself that one of the Threats™ finds me?

I decide the threats can suck my junk and text back. 

Hi, Brooke, I’m free. When, where, and with whom?

As my brain processes that I just made that decision-a personal decision for fun, gasp-Brooke answers. 

Cool! It’s going to be me, Bryn, Star, Jack, Ember, Onyx, and now you! We’re going to the New York Aquarium down in Brooklyn, and we meet up tomorrow at eleven thirty so we can get lunch together, but you can beat us there if you don’t want to come for lunch

As if I have a plan for lunch tomorrow. 

I’m up for lunch. Is there a plan on where?

Yeah! There’s this cool korean BBQ place we found a few years ago, it’s good for experimenting and having fun. They let you cook your own food, so it’s usually really cool. I think it will be good to introduce you to everyone through there, because you have the team task of not burning anything :) 

I will not light anything on fire.

:))))) Of course not :))))))

I strangely feel as if that is both mocking and friendly. I decide to just ignore it, in case I am reading signals wrong.

Ok, just text me where it is and when and I’ll show up.

Brooke quickly texts me a link to a website with the full menu and many pictures that are heavily edited. She only adds to meet up there at eleven thirty and then to the aquarium anywhere from a little after noon to one, depending on how many mistakes the group collectively makes, and how invested everyone gets in the conversation. 

My mind supplies the thought that it is odd that anyone would take more than ten minutes to eat-my pizza was done in around twelve, and that was with think-time and distractions-but my logical self quickly overruled. If this was the group verdict and so unchallenged, then that means my perception is just off. 

The air mattress is full. I make sure of this fact, test for any holes, and eventually decide that it’s fine. I don’t have any blanket, and the air is far too cold (why spend so much money on heating when I can clearly live without?), but as soon as I set my phone charging and lie down, my body tells me this is the height of luxury, apparently. 

The mattress is simultaneously too squishy and perfect. The mattress has a lot of give, and it feels like I’m sleeping on a cloud and about to fly away. It’s also relaxing and dark and there is so little stress it’s almost jarring.

Until, of course, I create some of my own.

Possible ways to find me, what am I going to eat, how am I going to afford this place down the line, how do I plan to get a job in current-day America with basic “schooling” and no references or experience? Was my name too traceable? The middle name was random, but that won’t be enough, most likely. If someone does find me, then how should I run? The bag pretty much has to stay packed. I can live with running without a blow up mattress and some food, but everything else should remain as inside the bag as possible. Just in case. 

Eventually, I go to sleep dreaming up plan number 57 for what would happen if HYDRA found me.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! Hope you liked it. Please comment and all that jazz. I was wondering if some of you could leave some female/genderneutral names down below that start with an s? Trying to pick a good one.


	7. Some Bad Times

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shay has a bad night and morning. Spark has a bad day, but in the bright side, she does meet the great Peter Parker.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys, I’m goin mg to be gone for the next month and after that school is going to really slow down updates. Hope you enjoy!
> 
> Triggers-  
> Sexism  
> Mentions of insomnia  
> Panic attacks

I wake up suddenly around two hours later. The neighbors-the ones who made me pay unreasonable amounts for cleaning supplies-are telling, and their raised voices sends my heart rate flying and my eyes threatening tears. My throat closes up, and-I can’t breathe. 

There’s no air anywhere, I can’t inhale. 

I’m only vaguely aware of the way my entire body is thrashing, how I fall to the floor in a mess of blankets with an awful sound, and even the temperature my body is-a horrible contrast between fever hot with panic and chilled with icy sweat-because I’m too focused on the way that I can’t breathe. 

“Stupid girl,” the man said in German, and then a long line of words I had heard only a few times by my fine age of twelve and one half-a string of curses so foul, my mama probably would have slapped me for thinking them. The man grabs me by the throat and drags me upwards, until I’m dangling and gasping-

The man shouts in Russian. I do not understand the language, fourteen and one quarter and alone, and I don’t particularly care to find out what the words mean. All I know is that he spits them out like jagged glass, burning fire that would burn me if I knew the meaning. This man shoves a needle in my arm and presses down on the plunger of the syringe-the pain overtakes my starved body, so intense that I choke, unable to breathe through it or even remember how to-and then I gasp and scream a wordless, shrieking sound-sharp and loud-

The woman crushes me with one hand, and I know the terror is right to tell me not to struggle. I remain pliant as she pins me to one wall and makes me watch as they haul James away, into that room, and the panic isn’t even slightly connected to the ache for air, it’s all attached to what they’re about to do-

There’s tears trailing down my cheeks, a stinging behind my eyes. My hip protests weakly from where I hit it falling off my little bed, and my head swirls and tilts with every thought and movement it manages to comprehend. 

I just lie there for a stupid amount of time. As my brain slowly reboots, it takes in the way my hip is bruising quickly and then fading to my regular olive skin just by the familiar feeling to it. It drifts from the quickly fading ache behind my eyes into safe, warm things. 

My mama’s laughter, my brother’s deep voice, the smell of dumplings and soup, the steam trailing off a fresh cup of coffee, the snap of a good bar of dark chocolate that I only hazily recall at all, a haunting piano tune that I would be willing to listen to exclusively for the rest of my life, mostly because I know it’s mama making the magical melody drift through the air. 

I start crying again, somewhere along the line. 

By the time I float back to reality, my eyes are aching again, I have a layer of dried tears and a layer of wet ones on my face, and my hip is fully healed. 

I blearily check the time on my phone. My eyes adjust fast, more so than any average. 

That took forty five full minutes. I estimate ten or so for the actual panicking not breathing part, and a full half an hour to come back to sanity after it. 

I have a headache, even if it is quickly dispersing. This is not the usual stabbing pain, but the burn that comes with exhaustion and dehydration, maybe even with the leftover burnt out panic and other tired emotions. 

I go to sleep after another forty five minutes or so, having hauled myself onto the blow up mattress with no grade at all, boneless in a pile of sweaty blankets. 

— 

It only happens twice after that. Once when someone trips down the stairs near my floor-after my freak out, I wish them well-and again when a door slams just loud enough to wake me. 

I grumpily wake up fully somewhere around too early. Six ten, my phone informs me. 

I head into the bathroom again. I grab the cheap bar of soap I bought and start scrubbing myself down with it, keeping the water at lukewarm so it’s not too expensive for me to pay for. I would just take a cold shower, but the cold water washing over me in all of it’s weak-water-pressure glory sends me sweating and my heart beating way too fast, so I don’t do that.

The shower is quick. I step out and grab my single towel, drying my hair before the rest of me. By the time I’m dressed and grabbing the last of the pizza-I ate all but two slices last night, I’ll have to find more food-it’s closer to six thirty. 

I sit and do my research while eating. 

My memory is still blurry enough that anything is useful. I start with Mr Stark, which leads me to the Avengers. I check out each individually and get varying amounts of information for every attempt. Then I loop back and check out Stark Industries and news feeds concerning the company.

By that point, I’ve finished my pizza. 

I get up toss the box before putting on my shoes and leaving. The neighbor down two doors stares warily, a cigarette between two stick thin fingers, as I pass. I mentally evaluate him-from his bare feet to his thin frame to his greasy hair-and come up with a very low danger level. He’s just paranoid, from what I can see. 

The stairs creak, but not in an I'm-about-to-collapse-get-off-me-idiot way. The door squeaks as well, and I ignore it equally well. 

The streets are as busy as I expected. I get swept up with the pace, my eyes scanning the streets until-

There. 

A restaurant that I don’t know and is not owned by Stark Industries. A miracle. 

I walk in and get a black coffee, two chocolate eclairs, two muffins (blueberry and poppy seed, the girl at the counter recommended them), and three random donuts (apple filling with powdered sugar, glazed, and one with rainbow sprinkles). The girl barely glances at my admittedly large order before ringing me up. 

As I walk to the door, planning to eat in a secluded area of the closest park, a man sitting and watching people order as he eats speaks up.  
“Hey, girl!” he says to my back. I turn around, eyebrow raised. Might as well be polite. “The men would like you better if you ate less, sweet cheeks.”  
“Thank you for the feedback,” I say, knowing full well that this probably won’t even hold me till lunch. “I’ll file it under ‘assholes who don’t know what they’re talking about’, I think it’s somewhere in the ‘I don’t care’ department.”

And then I turn around and walk out the door, but his shocked face is still in my memory. It’s surprised, not angry, thankfully. I’m sure that would have triggered another ten minutes of being unable to breathe. 

As I eat, I focus on what’s around me. The flowers are very pretty, the grass is soft, and the gentle sounds of the city in the background are almost soothing. 

It’s nice. 

—- 

After Shay disappeared, things got interesting. 

I went to school the next morning, obviously. My dad might have actually killed me if I did anything but school or sleep for ten hours. 

I had to put my phone on do not disturb because Mrs. Potts and Mr. Stark keep texting me asking for updates on what the scans mean and if I’ve seen her. They never say they’ve found her. Mr. Stark sent me what might as well be an essay talking about what he’s doing to find her. He asked me for ideas. I can’t add anything but my own eyes, because he’s covered everything short of contacting SHEILD. (“Like I’m telling those lunatics about her, they’ll just send her on missions the minute they find her.”)

Star noticed first, around the end of the second block. She is the most observant of our little group. 

Star’s also the most willing to be blunt to try to help. She comes right up to me and asks what’s wrong, citing her worry over how I keep checking my phone in math, where any phones are always confiscated if spotted. I just tell her that I’m worried over a friend and that she’ll get an update over lunch before hurrying to science. 

By lunch time, the entirety of my friend group has learned of my problem. They gang up on me as soon as I sit down with my awful school provided lunch. 

I spend ten minutes inhaling questionable corn, a carton of frozen milk, one awful apple, and some strangely lumpy and colorless “breaded” “pork”.

Then Ember gives me a cookie to eat as I tumble through my explanation, because she’s rich and I love her.  
“Okay,” I say, taking an anxious bite of cookie and staring at my phone, waiting for a notification. “So I was at SI doing my internship, and you know how I got it through hacking Mr. Stark? Well, I show up and then he shows up-“  
My face gets warm thinking about it. “And uh he insisted I needed to eat and sleep, which was, you know, fair, if hypocritical, and then Pepper Potts showed up and dragged me to eat-“  
Petal laughs and then quickly stops so I can continue.  
“Okay so then I insist on working after my forced sleep so I’m there working until, like, midnight.”  
“Your poor sleep schedule,” Star comments, head perched on both hands as she watches me inhale more cookie.  
“You got them as your new parents!” Petal says, “Congrats!”

“First, I detest that,” I say, not really disliking it much. “Second, so i'm there, and I’m going to go help Star, because she’s having a bad night, and Mrs. Potts is trying to stop me and either have me go home or sleep there, and I run into a girl by the elevators.”  
“Please tell me you didn’t literally run into her,” Ray says, shaking his head and sipping from his water bottle.  
“I did not, which was quite a feat on my amount of sleep,” I say proudly. “Anyway, so I ran into her in the elevators that morning. Her name was Shay, and she seemed pretty cool. Uh, so I don’t know why she was there that late? She said something about someone asking her to be, which seems kind of scammy. Anyway, Mrs. Potts makes both of us stay overnight, because walking at midnight half the length of the city isn’t really advisable with teen girls. So she’s grudgingly brought and like stuff and then she gets like a nose bleed. And she had been acting a little weird, so I was like, oh my God, she’s about to have a seizure. And she doesn’t, which was good, but Mr. Stark’s AI-“  
“He has an AI?” Onyx asks, munching on carrot sticks.  
“Yes, his name is Jarvis, but like each letter stand for something. Don’t know what. I call him J. Anyway, so J does a scan, to like, make sure Shay is okay. And, like, Shay’s scans came out awful. Like, I don’t know how she was functioning, acting weird is nothing, she was walking and talking and clearly had some sort of thought processes, which was incredible, because her fudging brain scans-“  
I pause to breathe and remember the fire colored thing.  
“So everyone starts freaking out, right? Like, Mrs. Potts and Mr. Stark left so she could sleep with me in this apartment Mr. Stark apparently just gave me, and it must have freaked Shay out, because while I’m trying to talk to her, you know, figure out how well she’s feeling, she gets this trapped and kind of scared look? And I thought, like, this is normal, she’s probably freaking out too, but like, next thing I know, she jumping into a vent?”

Everyone stares at me. Onyx, with his skinny female frame, shaved head, bound chest, and shocked eyes. Ember, her hair pulled into a messy bun, rosy cheeks spilling across her nose from each side of her face, staring at me with her mouth open. Star, with her black ponytail, pale skin, and calm demeanor. Jack, with his ridiculous white spiky hair, equally pale skin and eyes, and who looks like he’s about to burst out in shocked laughter. Petal, non-binary today, has their pink shoulder length hair braided, accented by their black hoop earrings and leather jacket that has a rock band tee underneath. They have a face that’s so confused and concerned it’s slightly concerning. Ray is running his hands through his short-ish blond hair, his tanned skin showing up well against it, with his golden brown eyes showing a very anxious inside. Brooke has left her black, kinky curly hair looked today, and with her brown skin and cute dress and leggings combo, she’s really cute today. She also is currently very shocked. 

“She just,” I say, shaking my head, “Did that. And by the time we could figure out where she was, the answer was no where in the building. Mr. Stark thinks she just climbed to the roof and scaled the building, it’s the only spot without cameras where J could have seen her. Either that or she was the speed of light and scooted through the tunnels all the way to the ground floor from the penthouse.”

Everyone still stares at me. My phone buzzes. It’s from Mr. Stark. 

Tony Stark  
Figured out the charts. Still no sign. I have Jarvis watching all the cameras in every building I own, and all the Avengers are ready to go. Anything you can figure out from her brain scan?

I stared at that thing for the rest of the night. Her frontal lobe seems the hardest hit, along with several things including her amygdala. The only pattern I could see for the hardest hit spots was that they all either handled memory or emotions and hormones. The relatively hurt things was stuff like anything handling sensations from her body. Which makes sense; she clearly would have been in pain, but if the part of her brain that handled stuff like that was hurt, she wouldn’t feel it as much. In the relatively okay group is also anything handling association, which, okay. After that, it’s either almost not hurt at all in comparison or showing signs that is already healed over (which: what, how).

Me  
Memories were probably blurry, she had a lot of damage in areas of the brain that handle that. Also, emotions and hormones would probably be dicey, along with sensations. Otherwise she’s comparatively healthy. 

Tony Stark  
I hate the word comparatively here

Me  
Dude she literally is only left with motor functions, the five senses, and that’s pretty much it, along with language. They pretty much have the equivalent of a gash, while the rest of her brain is just a bleeding, bruised mess. 

Tony Stark  
Okay. We haven’t found her yet. I’ll let you know. 

Me  
I’m keeping my phone on and with me, so make sure you do

The rest of lunch is spent smiling at my friends, who keep trying to distract me, and glancing at my phone when the teachers aren’t looking.

In fact, I spend the rest of the day like this. There’s just the added strain of needing to at least pretend to do work and remembering that, so I can avoid suspicion, I need to keep the bathroom breaks to once per class. I spend the bathroom breaks either texting Mr. Stark or Mrs. Potts. 

Immediately after school, Stark sends a car for a kid named Peter-a boy who I’m pretty sure is lying about his internship because he’s sweating and mumbling all over the place, but I guess he’s in the car, so maybe he’s just awkward-and me. Apparently, Peter is Mr. Stark’s intern. He is also very surprised to see me, while somehow being enthusiastic enough to get me to smile. 

I check my phone, but there’s nothing. People seem hesitant to interrupt my school day, which sucks, because if they’re interrupting with news, they are free to. 

I compulsively check my new bag as if Shay will appear out of nowhere so I can treat her. After last night, I cleaned Mr. Stark’s medical ward (two whole floors of constantly on-site doctors and specialists for everything from therapy to heart surgery) of anything that I could use to treat Shay that could also possibly fit in my bag. 

Peter gives me a questioning look. There is a lot of stuff on there. The stuff I got for Shay sightings is on top of the stuff I carry around for regular medical emergencies, whether or not they’re related to any superhero business. 

Peter keeps giving me weird looks as he talks about his friends Ned and MJ and how they’re all going to a party next weekend, and he has a chem test he’s really anxious about (Happy, the driver, mutters that he has no reason to be), and how he really, really loves his aunt, who is apparently his guardian. He talks about her around half of the time, and the rest of the time, she’s some part of the story. He talks at the speed of light, but I have a lot of experience with Onyx and Bryn and Ember when they start combusting with the pure amount of ideas they have. I probably do as well, to be honest. 

I offer him a few weak comments on my own school life before he finally gets curious enough to ask about my bag.

He gets a look like a hopeful puppy as he asks, “So what’s with your bag? There’s a ton of stuff in there.”  
“I want to be a doctor,” I say awkwardly and automatically, “So I know a lot of medicine and stuff. So I carry this with me so I can treat people who might need it.”

It’s the go-to excuse. I actually use it way more for the cuts and bruises and broken bones that comes with fighting crime, but I’m not against helping someone having a heart attack. 

He brightens and I can sense another rambling coming. He really is like a puppy. With his baby face and brown curls, he even looks the part. “Hey, that’s really cool! I can’t decide if I want to be a mechanical engineer like Mr. Stark or an electrical one or maybe a chemist? I’m good at all three, but I could just follow in Mr. Stark’s footsteps and become all three, even though he isn’t as good a chemist as Dr. Banner or anything. You know, Dr. Banner actually looks a lot like the picture hanging in Mrs. Wagner’s room…”  
He takes a moment to appreciate the fact that Mrs. Wagner, our science teacher, hung up a picture of Dr. Banner on the wall dedicated to inspirational people in the science world.  
“Anyway, I think Dr. Banner is really cool. Everyone keeps talking about how he’s the Hulk as well, but I don’t think it really matters much. I mean, he’s so cool on his own! Have you read his papers on radioactivity? Genius. And his theories on mutants and enhanced people that he’s been releasing more recently, those are awesome, he didn’t even use any negative language, which is, you know, really awesome of him. I mean-“

I feel the need to say something before he runs out of oxygen and suffocates while he tries to keep talking. “I’ve seen his theories on mutants and enhanced people,” I say, smiling gently. “It’s as good as the stuff he did on queer people.”

“Right?” Peter asks, practically vibrating in his seat. I can see Happy rolling his eyes in the front seat as he takes a turn. It looks like we’re two or so blocks from the tower. “I think he’s awesome. I’ve never heard him say anything bad about anybody, he’s so nice, and I don’t think he even knows it-“

“Sounds familiar,” Happy mutters from the front. Peter flushes But continues. I smile at him for the short rest of the ride, extended by New York traffic. 

We get out the car among more excited, fast words. I offer the occasional reply so he can breathe, because that seems to be the only time he does it. Mrs. Potts meets us in the lobby with a tight smile for Peter and a worried look and a raised brow for me.  
“I have nothing,” I say, “But I did spend all day looking at the diagrams. For all intents and purposes, the brain was so badly crippled that the only fully functioning parts would be language, motor skills, and the five senses. She should have just been...like a zombie, to be honest.”  
Peter is definitely looking worried. “What’s going on?” he asks.  
Mrs. Potts takes both of us by the arm, nods at a departing Happy, and takes us into the elevator. Peter fidgets, his face scrunched.  
“Peter, you know of HYDRA and AIM by now, right?” Mrs. Potts asks once the door closes. I have J pull the diagrams up in the 3D again so I can look at them in detail my phone can’t manage.  
Peter doesn’t look consoled. “Yeah? What about them?” His eyes widen. “Was Mrs. Widow captured?”  
“No, no,” Mrs. Potts says, waving the idea away. “We just...yesterday, we had a significantly brain damaged girl in the tower that we think was an agent for one of those, or maybe something or someone else.”  
Peter’s eyes widen. “Isn’t that dangerous?”  
“With the amount of brain damage she had,” I say slowly, “I’m not putting my money on she was there willingly. This looks like it may have been done by electrocution, repeated shocks to the head. And she was acting confused, dazed, and sometimes she would just fully shut off. We think she’s just a victim we can help.”  
“A very dangerous victim,” Mrs. Potts says, nodding. “If the way she escaped into the vents is any tell.”  
“She moved like it,” I say, looking at a giant hole in Shay’s frontal lobe. I had only seen the way Shay moved a few times, in my days as Super Shock. Even on Lizzy’s feeds, when I hadn’t been there. I saw it once in person, in a shooter who got his target and a mask over the entirety of his jaw that looked more like a muzzle than anything. When I did get eye contact, his eyes were a mixture of desperation, anger, and confusion that hurt my soul. He barely even left a bruise when he pushed me aside, right before he twisted a steel beam in order to jump out of a skyscraper. 

The only other time, she woman commited suicide off the tallest building I’ve ever been on top of, just after she killed a dozen and some men that all were HYDRA goons. She looked at me, and with the most cryptic last words ever (“Let’s hope this works,” why would she even say that?) she did the most graceful jump I’ve ever seen, s backflip right off the edge.

Oh no. 

My mind flies to what Shay’s face looked like. Did she have a muzzle-mask and the lines it would have left behind? 

My hands must be shaking. How can I tell Mr. Stark or Mrs. Potts this without blurting out the fact I’m Super Shock? 

“Uh, are you okay?” Peter asks me. 

I nod distantly.”Thinking,” I mutter. 

The lines left by the muzzle would have healed over, if the way her brain is actually healing is any indication. I would have no way of knowing, but-

“J, can you access the audio feed of the call Shay made?” I ask. “Or even just her while she made the call?”

This is also an important part of the puzzle. If Shay was kidnapped by HYDRA, she was not calling her mother. Which means that she was calling a HYDRA goon. 

“Unfortunately, to access a private call is illegal, even concerning one of our employees,” J answers. “However, the feed of Miss Li making the call is free to view.”  
He pulls it up along one wall of the elevator. I study Shay’s face just in case. There is nothing there but makeup. She makes the call in that cut off, emotionless way she got in the elevator really suddenly. J doesn’t have an audio feed sensitive enough to make out what the other person says, which sucks. 

The video ends with Shay handing Mrs. Potts her phone back. I got nothing useful from that. 

Mrs. Potts is staring at me as the door opens at the penthouse. “Spark?” she asks. 

“I will figure this out,” I promise. I wander out and sit on one of the couches. “J, is it possible to trace the call Shay made? If they were HYDRA, we could catch them and find Shay.”

J doesn’t answer for long enough to be slight concerning. “While tracing calls is only legal for Stark Industries to do under extreme concern on the employee’s behalf.”  
I rub my face. “J, my guy, she ran away with enough brain damage that if she was in a hospital, they would track her down because the staff would be concerned she would walk into oncoming traffic. Trace the call.”  
“Tracing Miss Li’s call.”

The map he pulls up gradually zooms in as Mrs. Potts and Peter watch me slump on the couch and try to brainstorm. Eventually, we get a warehouse owned by random tech company for prosthetics that, according to the stuff that J pulled up under the company name, wasn’t that good at their jobs. 

Mrs. Potts immediately has her Business Face™ on. 

“Buy them,” she instructs.  
“Ma’am, the company is not for sale,” J says.  
“Set up a meeting. Anything. We’re smoking them out.”  
If J could sigh, I’m sure he would. Instead, he pulls up a record of communications between SI and the prosthetics company. The only thing there is the offer for a meeting to discuss vaguely defined things. 

Within five minutes-which I spend reading the stuff J has pulled up on the company, apparently they specialize in arms attached at the shoulder, but really bad ones that practically attach to all of your organs to stay in place and probably hurt a ton-they reply. 

They also have a vaguely worded note, and it doesn’t give a clear answer on whether the companies will have a meeting. 

Pepper has them agreeing within fifteen minutes, which I spend thinking about how inhumane attaching those arms to a human would be (it attaches to the brain, which they spin as letting you feel stuff with the prosthetic, but I think of as agony) and worrying about Shay. 

Has she eaten? Did she sleep on the street? Surely a HYDRA agent would know how to rough it relatively safe, right? But she has awful brain damage, what if she can’t remember or doesn’t have enough sense left to figure it out? 

I wonder if her needs are different. Does she need more food? Probably, with the way her body is healing itself. Can she get sick? What if she drinks something bad? Does she have any money on her? 

Is she okay? Can I help?

Eventually, I have to go home. I work a bit-distracted enough that eventually Mrs. Potts just send me home. 

Dad isn’t there when I get back. I just immediately sit down in front of my computer and do what I’ve been itching to do all day. 

I talk to Izzy. 

“Hey, Iz,” I say, “Set all cameras to scanning for Shay’s face, voice, whatever you have on her. Send an alert to me, no matter what, if you get a hit. Got it, Iz?”  
“Yes, updating the code now,” Izzy says as the file for the code controlling her cameras pulls up and starts to be auto-edited.  
I open up some music to help me focus as I start writing an entirely new program. Izzy wouldn’t know how to make it, so I’ll have to do it by hand. 

It’s only focus is taking the information from Shay’s brain scan (long since downloaded by Izzy, the angel) and telling me what it can about it. 

How can her brain just heal like that?

“Izzy, how’s the current Hacking Tony Stark attempt going?”  
“Would you like a summary or a specific piece of information?”  
“So we have anything on the serum Captain America was given back in the fifties?” I ask, “I think it might help. I mean, Shay can be compared to him, right?”

“I can try my best,” Izzy says, “And it appears there is nothing in the Stark Industries files I’ve gotten into about the original serum. There is, however, a record of Mr. Roger’s abilities, limits, strengths, weaknesses, and so on.”

Izzy (how did I live without her?) pulls up the file without my prompting. 

“Cams in the suits are all updated,” Izzy says, “I am currently accessing the cameras you placed around the outside of the apartment.”  
“Great job, Izzy,” I say absently, typing out a line of code that explains the color system-what red, orange, and green means. 

“Spark, may I ask what you are writing?”  
“A program that can evaluate a brain in detail.”  
“Alright, let me know if you need help.”  
“Of course,” I say, thinking in the back of my mind for the millionth time the hundreds of way Shay could have died by now. 

She could have died by now. I hope she lives.


	8. Aquariums, Memories, And Assassination Attempts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shay has a good time out and a bad time coming back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! Question time: why do you think Cap aged in Endgame? With the serum, which would have looked at aging as an issue, he shouldn’t have been able to. So maybe the serum wears off over time? In that case, why hasn’t that started to happen by the seventy years gone by, even if Steve was on his coma?

As I sort through my admirably blurry memories, the thought comes to me that I can’t remember feeling so alive. 

And I know I can’t even compare to Brooke next to me. I feel it hollowly, but I am completely sure of it. 

Brooke has pulled her hair back into a bun with a scrap of blue cloth. She is wearing overalls with a blue crop top underneath (she mentioned earlier, just after she met with me in this restaurant that she had never done anything showing this much skin in public, I don’t know if I responded well, I hope I responded well) (did I fail-no-friend-no-friends bad, can’t have friends-) and black ballet flats that make her footsteps sound much different that anyone else’s. This is good, because it is easier to know where she is when I cannot see her, because I must keep her safe, if HYDRA gets her, it would be my fault-

(Anything else, think of anything else-)

Brooke’s blood spilled over hard, cracking concrete. A brown hand that is hanging limp and slightly grey, the gun glinting in the corner of my vision-

Brooke hurts her feet a lot in them. The soles are concerningly thin-very different from my own black boots, heavy in every footfall-and I am worried that she will slice open her foot on the street. 

Her freckles are very apparent on her face. I didn’t notice them last time, because she had on makeup last time I saw her, but now she only has eyeliner and lipstick, from what I can tell. She smiles at me more than I can remember anyone doing, which is also concerning. 

I am dangerous, after all. I cannot forget that. 

Every motion I make is measured. Ever ounce of strength weighed in my mind before I use it. My surroundings are always accounted for, so I do not make a mistake. 

Mistakes, after all, can be fatal. 

Okay, maybe not so alive. Robotic, just a bit. But that’s fine. That will change. I just have to act. 

I can act. 

It’s only me and Brooke here right now. Bryn is technically also here, but they are not where I can currently see them, because they are in the bathroom. Star sent Brooke a text that she was going to be slightly late because her dad “pegged her with extra chores”. I do not know what this means, but I decide not to ask when Brooke skips along in her topics in the way she does. Jack says he’s coming with Star, and Ember and Onyx are on the same train and will get here in around five minutes. 

When she said “train” I first pictured a steam train, belching smoke from burning coal and complete with gold accents and the clinking of coins in the rich folks’ pockets. I decide this is wrong as well, because I saw no trains like that outside, and I can’t imagine they are anywhere in the crowds of this city. 

“Look,” Brooke says, smiling a lot suddenly. She stands upright from the column she was leaning against. “A dog!”

I turn slightly so whatever she is talking about is in my line of vision along with her. There is a dog, a small one wearing a service dog vest. 

I vaguely remember that is is illegal to pet one of these working dogs. 

“Do not pet,” I say, stopping her. “Service dog.”  
“Aw,” Brooke says, going back to her column that stand right past the security. “I only saw an ear. Wanted to pet a cutie.”  
“No pets are allowed inside the building expect service animals,” I say, remembering a sign outside.  
Brooke looks around. “Is there a sign?” At my nod and point towards the doors, she smiles at me. “You have a good memory.”  
I put on a fake smile that I have done many times before. “Yes.”  
“I wonder how good you’d be at a memory games…”

I glance around the room. I take in the crowd, the details of the people, the cameras scattered around that room in that strip where the ceiling meets the wall, the security stationed along the walls. The ceiling is high, so I check there too. There is nothing suspicious, no familiar faces, not a hint of a weapon or even one of the more common ways to hide one (at least not frequently enough that it couldn’t be coincidence). 

I have two small handguns on me along with twelve knives, plus ammo. This is a very dangerous, risky move I’m making, so I need to be prepared. 

I stand pointing away from the security cameras and consider palming a knife while I respond to the wonderings Brooke says out loud about my ability to play memory games. I can’t volunteer much to the conversation because I can’t even remember an example of a memory game. I manage to steer her towards the topic of the bakery she works at. 

“Yeah, I run it with my twin, Bryn, and Mama,” Brooke says. “King’s bakery because that’s what we changed our last name to after my father….”

There’s a long pause. There are several words that could fill that blank. Her father may have died, and they changed their name to escape the grief. But I doubt it, because she used “father” instead of something more personal. Maybe her parents got divorced and her mother took custody. Maybe her father was abusive and they split because of that. Maybe he was abusive and then died. 

I palm a knife in my non dominant right hand and take note of every man in sight that looks kind of looks kind of like Brooke and is old enough to be her father. 

I decide to say something so Brooke can lose the anguished look on her face. “My mama is dead,” I say, right before realizing that is probably incredibly inappropriate. But it grabs her attention and it’s the only parental information I have. I can’t even think of anything else that I can remember that would go in that blank. That would be that shocking and disruptive. 

“I’m so sorry,” Brooke says, turning to look at me fully. “How old were you?”

“Mama!” I screamed. Blake put a hand over my mouth as he dragged me towards the woods I used to play in. I was only ten, but I understood that the man coming to power did not like us. But these men that came to our door, hearing of an older Chinese woman who sometimes didn’t act totally sane-they were not from this man. 

They were dressed like any other, not soldiers. They were men from our town. It terrified me. Did they pretend to like us? Did I know them? 

Blake knocks over a lit candle. He doesn’t even look as it lights the paper next to it. 

Mama is screaming. I don’t know if she’s coherent enough to understand what’s going on fully, but she clearly understands that something is wrong. 

After that there is only flashes of memories and sensations. 

Sleeping in the cold, the edge of a building a harsh contrast against Blake’s side snuggled up to me, looking for warmth. The yelling of a man, screaming at us to stop and give him his bread back. The adrenaline that always comes from a man yelling at me. The feeling of paper in my hands, numbed by the cold. Reading of a boarding school paid for by a father I had never seen. A promise that we would live. 

A promise. 

He promised. (He failed.)

“I was ten.” (I think.) 

Brooke hugs me. She has already done this five times since I met her, so I think it’s safe to say she’s a hugger. “I’m sorry,” she says again. 

(They weren’t.)

“Hate crime,” I say, not even knowing the meaning of the words. 

Brooke does, though. Her eyes widen and she clutched me tighter. “Did she hurt much?”  
“I don’t know,” I say. “She wasn’t mentally stable all the time. I hope she had an episode during it so she didn’t feel it.”  
“So you weren’t there?” she whispers in my ear.  
“My brother didn’t want me getting hurt,” I defend, like I could have helped. Why am I having this conversation? I’m saying true things, that’s dangerous. What if they torture her because of it? “He dragged me away.”  
Brooke nods into my shoulder before slowly letting me go. For some reason, she’s blushing.  
“Sorry to bring that up,” she says quietly. It’s strange; she’s usually so loud and happy. 

“I’m the one that did it,” I say, eyes glancing around the room one more time. 

Besides, it was good to remember.) (Mama deserves that.)

Bryn comes back from the bathroom. I note what their footsteps sound like as they walk. They immediately start talking about science homework, but becomes distracted when a girl with fiery red hair walks through the door with Onyx. I remember the other girl’s name is Ember, and that she was angry last time I saw her. 

I stand slightly in front of Brooke. 

Brooke doesn’t notice. She stands up properly again (good, she’ll be better at defense) and goes to meet up with them as soon as they get through security. I follow her like a hyper paranoid bodyguard, unquestioning the normalcy she deems this to be and ready to beat up anyone who touches her. 

Jack and Star show up around ten minutes later, after Brooke tries her hardest for me to be active in a conversation. I try my best. I could have done the easy thing and lied, plans for that kept coming up in my head, but I decided it was a good way for me to remember stuff anyway. But I couldn’t say much because I have to edit heavily everything coming out of my mouth. 

Star smiles at me before hugging Brooke back when she tackles her. Jack starts chatting with Onyx about calculus homework, which was apparently very difficult.  
We wander off into the glories and wonders of the aquarium. I do my best to flinch at the sloshing water I can sometimes hear, and all the screaming and yelling. I don’t even know why I’m doing it. Star sees me flinch when I almost collide with a toddler that I could not hear in the noise, and she pivots slightly to walk next to me so she can divert anyone, leaving a wall to my other side. 

After that, I just assign myself the job of being pleasant. I respond to questions to the best of my blurry mind’s ability, smile almost continuously, and make the expected ‘awwww’ or ‘wooooaaaaah’ sounds at the various marine life. 

Ember comments on my hair, asking how I straighten it so well. I just tell her it’s naturally like this, which is true. She pouts and calls it unfair. I don’t know how hard her hair is to take care of, but mine is pretty low maintenance. Bryn also complains about their hair, string at the partially dyed curly black. 

Onyx whispers to Star part way through.  
“I have to go take off my binder. Did you see a bathroom?” He asks.  
Star shakes her head and looks around. “How long have you been wearing it?”  
Onyx pauses. Star, after the pause, looks at him suspiciously. “Did you wear it to sleep or something? How long have you had it on?”  
“Uh,” Onyx mumbles, “Yesterday?”  
Star smacks Onyx lightly on the arm. It makes my guy clench, but neither of them react. “Onyx! You know you’re not supposed to wear it for more than eight hours! You could have broken a rib!”  
Star stops, her eyes narrowing slightly. I pretend to watch an otter. “Didn’t I see you last night?”  
Onyx mutters a curse. “I’m fine! No broken ribs!”

I get a flash of someone cutting their own hair, as close to the scalp as possible, tears streaming down their face. Then the same person wrapping their chest tightly with bandages. 

Dread fills me. I don’t think that ended well. Is Onyx going to get hurt? I should watch out for broken ribs. Or bones in general, really. 

“You know you’re not supposed to wear that while exercising! And you better not have worn it to sleep!” A slight pause. “Did you sleep? You better have.”  
Onyx sighs. “I’m going to the bathroom.”  
Star sighs and lets him go, muttering, “I’m going to keep a closer eye on you, be careful.”

Onyx wanders off. When he makes eye contact for a split second, still not having located a bathroom, I casually point him towards the closest one. He gives me a weird look, probably wondering how I knew what he was looking for and where it is, before heading in that direction. 

Ember flashes me a smile. I nod back. 

Brooke grabs my hand to get my attention in front of the dolphins and points at one doing a particularly cool trick. I look at the dolphin as it splashes back into the water. 

The trainer throws it a fish. If I just reimagine the fish as electricity and ice, I am the dolphin. Except maybe a dolphin who swam out of the pool and flip-flopped to the ocean. With seventeen knives, a full backpack, and a few handguns. 

Brooke smiles and blushes again. I smile back at her, but I can’t blush because the subconscious reaction was trained out of me. Along with things like crying or screaming. 

Ow. My head again. Yay. 

My brother sneaking out the back door in the middle of the night. Following him to watch as he dances among kids his own age to nonexistent music, and then to see him kiss the butcher’s son behind a brick building. Watching the butcher’s son get beat up and arrested. Seeing tears falling down my brother’s face as he tries to hide them. Watching the butcher cry out as his son is arrested. 

I feel a flash of fear. I glance around. No one is looking at us, but this is a very public place. Much more public than a deserted brick alleyway. 

I stop smiling slowly, so she will not be offended, and turn back to the glass wall. Behind it is the sea creatures and so much water that I’m surprised we haven’t died in a flood yet. I prepare a plan to climb to safety as I watch a dolphin float about. 

“So, Shay,” Ember says, still watching the dolphin do tricks. “You said you grew up in Germany. How’s that different then America?”

My head stabs itself. Eating with my fingers. The taste of something sweet. Laughing as I chase my brother. Blake running straight into a tree. Reading with Mama as I struggle to say all the large words. 

“Different,” I say. “Really different.”

Star swats Ember when she opens her mouth to say something when I don’t say anything more.  
“I was born in America,” Brooke says. Bryn nods. “I mean, you wouldn’t believe it from what people have said to me. But I was. Mama wasn’t, though. She became a citizen around...three years ago.”  
I nod along like I know the things she’s talking about. What’s the immigration process to America? I have about as much idea about that as what I ate on my seventh birthday. 

That is, none. 

Ember nods along while Star talks. “My dad came her from England last year. Became a citizen no problem because of me and because he’s white.”

“Scum,” the man spits at me. My eight year old brother clutches my tiny hand tighter and huddles into Mama’s side as she tries to buy carrots. 

“Unworthy to live.”  
“Mercy to kill.”  
“Subhuman.”

I swallow. I say nothing because there’s dust and ashes blocking my throat. 

Onyx comes back. He has on a hoodie so big and baggy, I can’t see how large any part of his body that it is covering is. And it goes halfway down his thighs. 

(He’s hiding a weapon under the hoodie.)

I nod at him and we start walking to the next exhibit as Onyx starts talking. Apparently, he writes songs and he’s having trouble with a certain rhythm. He also miMes out playing the drums, so I think he does that too. Ember offers her advice, because she plays the violin and knows more about music than anyone else. Brooke offers her unbiased opinion, and I just smile. 

We head to get Korean BBQ within the next half hour. I try my best to keep up with conversation and not burn myself over the open flame which we use to cook our own food. I learn that Star wants to be a politician and that’s she is “far left”. I don’t comment because I don’t know what it means. Brooke groans about her gymnastics lessons and the new teacher that she doesn’t like. Onyx paints us a picture of trying to convince his mother to start the process to letting him have testosterone. I offer comments on my mother’s cooking, which I think she liked to do because a lot of childhood type memories have food involved. Or maybe I really liked food? Bryn talks about how he’s working on some hormone therapy that would work for people with enhanced metabolisms. I don’t know most of his references or the science words coming out of his mouth. 

We leave after forty-five minutes. (Why did it take so long? We didn’t need all that time to eat.)

I’m heading in a different direction than everyone else, so I’m alone walking to the apartment. 

I scan the skylines as I walk at an average pace. (They usually take the rooftop route for strike missions.) I also periodically look around and evaluate everything I can to make sure it’s safe. 

The cocking of a gun is the first sign. 

My eyes snap to the building ahead of me-where the source was-and quickly do a scan of every building around. 

Nothing. So they didn’t send a team. 

Just one person. But which one? There are six options. 

(If they chose James, I am going to die here.) 

(If they chose the Black Ghost, you will be tortured in plain view for the terrorization.)

(If they chose anyone else, you will be taken down as quickly and painfully as possible and dragged back to be wiped or killed.)

(Mission requirements: get out alive. Priorities: take as minimal damage as possible. Leave unfollowed. Report- no… minimize civilian and proprietary damages.)

I step in the middle of a bubble absent of people and stay there. 

A gunshot. 

The crowds scatter and screams. The bullet misses me only because I know how to dodge faster than any human can move. 

They sent James. The Black Ghost would have layered the place in bullets. James is confident enough in himself to only shoot once. 

I drag a cloth out of my pocket-the red rag that Bryn gave me-and tie it just below my eyes so I can’t be identified as easily. I also pull up the hood of my jacket and draw the strings tight. I dodge people and decide that I’m standing too close to all of them to guarantee their safety. I climb a lamppost as fast as possible while sliding a handgun into my left hand. 

I must look very unprepared. Black hoodie pulled up, deep blue jeans that are almost black as well, and red cloth over my face. I crouch on top of the lamppost and stare up at the building. 

The next thing to fly towards me is a grenade. 

I flip off of the lamppost and onto a car that was behind it. I slip smoothly off of the thing and sprint in the middle of the street. This is safe because people got out and started running after the gunshot. 

The crowds are actually very organized. They all move towards subway stations and into buildings, crowding into the back. 

I guess that’s New York for you. So used to violence that they know just what to do when tragedy strikes. 

The grenade explodes. I don’t flinch, only weave between cars. Then I turn and sprint up to the side of the building, throwing myself onto the wall and starting to climb. I make sure to go as fast as possible, following the plan I made running for the wall, and I’m up within thirty seconds. 

I point the gun at the black figure. 

It is James. Or, rather, by his stance and hard eyes, Winter, one of the three people sharing that body. I see his muzzle in detail first. I want to rip it off. He’s wearing his full combat uniform, right down to the repainted star on his metal arm (don’t think of how it must hurt, it distracts) and the copious black around his eyes.

I dodge another shot and take my own. 

I hit him in the leg. He doesn’t even shift his weight, which means he just came out of cryo. Winter is the most emotionally brainwashed of the three, and the deadliest. 

He’s the one I think was created to handle the torture. Later, he learned how to kill. 

This is the true Winter Soldier. 

“Hi, Winter,” I say. 

Winter was brainwashed by HYDRA the most. The only even vaguely human thing about him is the way he likes me a lot. 

Taking Winter by the arm and gently dragging him away from the mission, choosing to instead hug him and ask him his name. He had first made it apparent a week ago that he was separate from the others, and I had learned last time to be as gentle and respectful as possible. 

Winter doesn’t answer. Instead, he throws another grenade. 

I run out of the blast zone, jumping to another building that’s only two floors down. I roll out of the jump and pop to my feet, turning immediately. Winter throws another grenade. 

That’s the third. He only has ten on him at a time. 

We keep doing that. I do a full circle around Winter’s rooftop and he drops a grenade on each one, blowing it up behind me. 

It’s nice, because Winter isn’t trying to kill me. 

If he really was following orders-killing me as quickly and maybe painfully as possible-he would be shooting. That’s Winter’s thing, shooting. Especially shooting to kill. But the grenades are smart-I have a slight warning, time to run, and it still looks like he’s trying to kill me. 

Once I run out of buildings, I climb back up Winter’s building. 

“Winter, you don’t have to do this,” I remind him.  
Winter throws a tranq at me. I dodge it easily. 

A building blows up nearby. I don’t even have to look at it to know that it’s the small store on the corner. 

“Nice distraction,” I tell him.

I take stock of where I am. There’s a small open square to my left. The burning store behind me to my right. Buildings and streets as usual everywhere else, of generally the same height. I hop down to the rubble left of the building that was next to the square. The grenade is strong, built by the same team that made Winter’s arm. The only things left of the top floor is a few walls, some concrete, and scattered pieces of broken furniture. 

The square doesn’t have people in it anymore and there’s not much to break. It’s the best spot to fight. 

I turn around and smoothly shoot Winter in the hand. He just switches the hand that holds the gun, not even dropping it. 

I forgot about his pain tolerance. 

Then a dart hits me in the back. 

(Should have scanned the buildings around the square.)

The hoodie blocks it a bit, but it still totally landed. I yank it out only to see that it’s already empty. And that stuff is made to put us down. 

I plant my feet so I won’t stumble and look around. Black figures in the shadows of the buildings, not hiding that well. If only I had looked around!

My heart beats faster, and I can feel the pulse through my whole body. My fingers and toes tingle, followed by nausea climbing up my throat. 

I sway slightly, but stay on my feet. 

This is bad. I might be able to handle Winter. But Winter and a strike team while drugged? Not happening. 

I put the dart in my pocket and consider my options. The buildings are all occupied, but there’s only two to three men per building. I might be able to fight just them off and run before the rest get there. 

I could climb Winter’s building again and try to convince him and/or run. 

The streets are out, due to the easy shooting target I would be. There’s no cars I could get too before being shot. 

I climb Winter’s building again. 

“Hi,” I tell him. 

He doesn’t reply. Big surprise. 

“Sorry for shooting you,” I tell him, “But I really don’t want to die today, so it was kind of necessary.”

Nothing. I think Winter is having either a nonverbal day or he’s anxious not to be caught with I, the horrible traitor. Probably both. 

I sprint past him, and on my way, throw my hand backwards to take off his muzzle. I throw myself at him at the same time, straddling him upright because I didn’t manage to actually knock him over. I don’t hurt him, just do my best to pin his arms and take off that horrible mask at the same time. 

The metal clanks to the ground. I drop off him, and while Winter is turning around, I flip off the back of the building. 

Rolling to a stop on the edge of the sidewalk, I take a look around. There’s no obvious people hiding in the buildings or on top of them. I sprint along the edge of the buildings, or rather, I start to. 

“You know, blowing up buildings isn’t a very good plan!” I hear behind me. I take cover behind a partially crumbled wall and look back. 

It’s Iron Man. The Avengers are officially here. 

“What even is the plan here, dude? Don’t you usually kill people?” Iron Man asks. 

I crouch and scan the buildings again. Hawkeye must be somewhere nearby, he’s an archer. I spot him on a rooftop two doors down from where I am. 

The wall doesn’t cover me from that angle. 

Weren’t there two others? Where are Captain America and Black Widow? 

Captain America announces himself soon enough. He does it by launching his shield at my face. I do not appreciate having a shield thrown at my face, but I guess I know where he is now. 

I hit the floor and quickly jump back to my feet. “Why are you dressed like the American flag?” I ask. He stops, probably shocked I don’t know him, and I take the opportunity to sprint up to him and knock him in the jaw as hard as I can. I would pull my punch, because of the enhanced strength I have along with the enhanced everything else, but his Wikipedia page said he had heightened healing and resilience, so he’ll probably be fine. 

He goes flying to the ground. He still looks conscious, which is surprising. My mind offers me a flash of a memory that shows me killing someone with a hit like that, which I don’t enjoy much, but can’t dwell on, because the guy is actually getting to his feet. 

Wow. Enhanced resilience indeed. 

I grab his shield and throw it as hard as you possibly can in a random direction. It ends up flying over a building away from Winter and out of sight. 

“Sorry, couldn’t let you keep that,” I say, “But if you makes you feel better, I don’t really want it.”

Theft seems like something Mama would or should have yelled at me for . Also, that thing probably has a dozen trackers on it, and I don’t know how to fight with such a stupid weapon. 

I take out my handgun. Captain America’s eyes widen when he sees it, but I just flip it and knock him over the head with the hard piece of metal. Then I smoothly-not even really thinking about it- put him in a chokehold and flip onto his back, letting him go just to strangle him with my thighs. 

I take out a knife and wait for him to pass out as he claws at me with his gloved hands and stumbles around. He’s also talking, which I wouldn’t be concerned about except for the fact that he’s not talking to himself. A mic? Is he calling in help? 

An arrow hits the pavement where I was a second ago, before Captain America stumbled again from lack of oxygen. 

I hear a muffled, “Sorry, dude, but I can’t shoot her without hitting you.”

“Do it,” Captain America grinds out. “She’s going to kill me like this.”  
“No I’m not,” I tell him clearly. “I’m just waiting for you to pass out so you’ll stop beating me up. No killing here.”  
Captain America doesn’t believe me, if I’m going by his increasingly desperate calls into the coms he has. 

What if him being enhanced means he’ll just straight up die instead of pass out? This is taking forever. 

I flip off his head backwards, landing on the street with a roll while still relatively close. Captain America staggers, then does his best to face me. 

“Who are you?” He asks, like I know anymore.  
“Depends on who you ask,” I say, taking out a knife and stabbing him in the fleshy part of his shoulder while sweeping him off his feet, making sure to stay close so the archer won’t shoot me. 

Captain America cries out. I leave in the knife so he’ll bleed slower and also because I have plenty of knives. I take out the next one and use it to cut off his mask. I take out the mic and com and look at it. I raise my voice so I can’t be identified and speak. 

“Do what you want to the goons. Kill them as painfully as you want. But the Winter Soldier-“

I pause. HYDRA would tell me to use threats. But I am so tired of those. 

“Please don’t. And Hawkeye, if you could not shoot me, that would be great.”

I get off Captain America, placing his helmet, mic, and com next to his body. He’s moving like he’s trying to get up, so I place a gentle hand on the shoulder that isn’t stabbed. 

“Sorry for stabbing you,” I say. “But you were kind of attacking me and I didn’t know what to do except make you stop. See you.”

I stand up. “Oh, and I didn’t stab you anywhere bad. You’ll be fine.”

Then I sprint down the street. I’m almost immediately interrupted by a HYDRA agent dropping in front of me. 

I punch him in the face, drop to sweep him off his knees, and then stand again. By the time I’m running, one of Hawkeye’s arrows have lodged itself into the guy’s ribs. Right to the heart. The guy struggles, and I don’t stop to watch him die. I’ve lost feeling in my toes, but I can still move my fingers. My scalp prickles. 

I salute the building I saw Hawkeye in last and sprint down the street. 

“Get it!” an agent calls behind me. “It’s getting away again!”  
I curse him out as I run, because it feels good and I don’t care. Once I’m done with getting my anger out, I take my handgun and shoot backwards. I hit one guy in the leg and another right at the hip. I’m trying to aim, but it’s hard to do while both parties on either side of the gun are running and the one shooting is running backwards. My gut protests at all this movement, threatening making me throw up. The last tranq took half an hour to work fully; they must have upped the dosage. 

“It?” Hawkeye yells, outraged. He fires an arrow and toppled another man. Then I hear more footsteps. 

I turn to see Black Widow. Then I lower my gun, my mind filling with two distinct plans; run and hide as far away as possible, and hug this woman. 

“Natalia?” I scream. She’s dead. They killed them all. They ended the Red Room and killed every child in it. How is she alive?

“Raven,” she answers. She shoots three more men quickly and physically takes one down. “Run.”

I nod and run away. My vision has started to spot and I think I’m swaying slightly again. 

A little girl, blood dripping down her face and a gun in her hand. It’s shaking as she comes into the room that only has James and I in it.  
“I am the Raven,” I had told her. “I am the Asset,” James tells her. He doesn’t look the part Winter plays, not completely, but he hasn’t been questioned yet. The girl with red curls and green eyes looked at us both separately, then speaks. “You are to teach me?”

“Yes,” I had answered. “We will teach you the ways of death and spywork. If you survive, you will have your graduation.” I had thought, at the time, that I should say sterilization instead. 

They tried that on me, past me had thought. I woke up and killed them all. Maybe she will have the strength to do the same. 

In real time, I wonder if they succeeded. Maybe that’s when she escaped?

I’ve made it to three blocks away before I hear a Hulk roar with my super hearing. I wince and step into a subway. 

I did it. Im safe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Please leave a comment, I respond to all of them. <3


	9. Peter Parker, Tough Times, And A Few Hard Truths

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hi guys! Shay finally meets Peter! (And drama but you know, Peter.)
> 
> Triggers  
> Unhealthy coping mechanisms  
> Drugged victim of violence (she gets back safe)  
> Arguments (or the start of one)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome back! Hope you enjoy!

The train home takes entirely too long. I spend the entire time making my hands stop shaking horribly and scanning the entire train. I almost throw up five times and my legs shake. I distract myself by taking off the red cloth and putting it in my pocket. 

I had thought that I was going to enter my battle mode for one second. That time when emotions can’t touch me and I’m entirely made of logical thought, muscle memory, and instinct. That’s the heartless monster people are afraid of. 

It’s a miracle that they didn’t say the keywords to trigger the switch to the Raven. I think none of them got close enough to be sure I would hear. 

I stumble coming out of the train, barely holding myself up on a nearby bench. Instead of the world swaying around me, it kind of feels like I’m lurching against the rest of the world in the most vomit-inducing way possible. 

“Ma’am? Are you okay?” asks a voice behind me. It’s familiar, but I’m so hazy that it takes a second to place it-that’s Spider-Man’s voice.  
“M’ fine,” I say as quickly as possible before snapping my jaw shut to avoid barfing on the bench I'm leaning on. “Jus’ drugged a bi’.”

There’s a startled sound, and suddenly two hands are touching me and helping me stay upright. I flinch, and he loosens his grip but doesn’t let go. I swing my head, and I see a regular boy.

Ah, he’s out of suit.

His brown curly hair flops just like my stomach and his eyes are concerned, like the slight crowd surrounding me. I glance around, breathe out through my nose, and mutter.  
“No hospit’l, can’t-go there-” I say, leaning on the boy. If I go there, not only will I be trackable and on public record, they would figure out how I’m enhanced and I’d probably be given over to the government. And with SHIELD practically just being HYDRA at this point, I can’t see that go well.

My vision develops spots at the corners, dancing in and out. The world sways again, and I can’t feel my fingers. 

“Okay, okay, sure,” the boy-Spider-Man-says. “Just-um, where do you want to go?”  
“‘Partment,” I manage. “That way.”  
I nod, or, rather, sway me head toward the correct set of stairs toward the apartment. The boy gently leads me there, taking more weight then I think most humans can manage that easily. I get up the stairs at a pace that annoys everyone else on them, but I am a little too busy not faceplanting to care.  
“My name’s Peter,” the boy tells me. Peter carefully holods me upright, and I think he’s putting effort into not pressing too hard on my skin. “Who drugged you?”  
I mutter something uncatchable on purpose. What was I supposed to say? Men sent from the organization currently either trying to recapture or kill me? 

My solution is just a whole bunch of syllables not even pretending to be a word. 

“Uh,” Peter says, “Okay.”  
“Mmmmgh,” I say, not opening my mouth. “‘At way.”  
I swing my head up another set of stairs. We come up onto a busy street, all the noise making my head spin and my gut revolt. 

I turn and throw up onto the sidewalk. Thankfully, I didn’t hit anyone. Peter manages to hold on to me enough that I don’t fall over while also not getting barf on himself. 

I don’t feel much better after I throw up. Clearly, the poison is already in my bloodstream, not my digestive system. 

Peter takes me all the way back to my apartment building. I tried to ditch him before then, not wanting Spider-Man to know where I live, but he either caught up with me or just gripped me tighter. 

He agrees to leave me at the front door as long as I call him once I get upstairs safely. I mumble something along the lines of a really tired yes, and he gives me his number and stands back. I stumble through the front door and up the stairs, which still creak more than I strictly like. 

I unlock my door in my fifth attempt. It took that long because my vision doubled once I slumped against the door to attempt to even get out my key, so it took a bit. I stumble in and ditch my bag near the door, just slumping to the ground. I call Peter, mutter something about being in the apartment, and hang up. 

Then I throw up and pass out. 

—-

When the Avengers assembled for a bombing, I didn’t think it was going to be this dramatic. I mean, apparently Steve’s been stabbed. JARVIS informs me that there are several ways to treat him if I’m willing to carry him back to the tower as I’m busy trying it to die. 

“Sir, it appears you are fighting the Winter Soldier,” JARVIS tells me. “Facial scans show the Winter Soldier as a match for Seargent James Buchanan “Bucky” Barnes, Mr. Rogers’ childhood best friend. Should I notify Mr. Rogers?”

“Can we focus on me not dying?!” I ask, shooting a repulsor blast at the Winter Soldier as he tries to gun me down with his machine gun. 

“Of course, sir. I’m analyzing his fighting style now. However, I would hesitate to do substantial damage to Mr. Rogers’ close friend.”

I lunge out of the way of a rocket launcher from behind me. One of the stupid agents in the surrounding buildings must have fired it. “Where’s the rest of the team?! Isn’t Nat supposed to be taking these guys out?!” 

“Miss Romanov is currently attacking the man in the building to your right. Do you want me to give her a message?”

“Tell her to go as fast as possible!” I yell, trying to hit the Winter Soldier with another repulsor blast. The suit’s integrity goes down to 88% in the corner of my eye as more bullets hit me and ricochet off. “I need backup if I’m going to do more than stay alive over here!”

“Message sent, boss,” J tells me. “Step to the left.”

I do and the Winter Soldier throws a grenade there. I step a lot more to the left before it blows up. 

The Soldier doesn’t even blink. He just turns to face me again, his face blank. 

I’ve seen this guy before. He’s popped up on two missions, always gone in an instant and never like this. Now, his mask is off, letting us see his face properly. He has a handsome face, with a sharp jawline and hair to his shoulders in a matted tangle. His face is bruised in one side-maybe rubble from one of the explosions hit him. 

There’s blood dripping slowly out of his left nostril. It reminds me of Shay. 

I fire another repulsor blast. “Look, Sergeant Blizzard, you don’t have to do this!” I dance to the side more, but the Winter Soldier doesn’t move to face me this time. He stares into the distance as his nose bleeds harder. 

“Sergeant Barnes has not taken any hits to the nose. A bloody nose not chased by outside damage like a broken nose can be a sign of brain damage,” JARVIS says. 

“JARVIS!” I yell. 

“Yo, Stark!” Barton shouts over the Avengers coms. “I’ve got eyes on someone!”  
“Shoot them!” I say, “Why do you think you’re here?! To watch?!”  
“Stark, they’re not dressed like an agent!” Hawkeye yells. “It’s just a kid in a hoodie!”  
“Then they’re civilian!” I yell, frustrated by Clint and the fact that the Soldier isn’t moving and it’s creeping me out. “Let them get out of here!”  
“Cap already attacked them!” Clint yells.  
“What?!” I ask. The Winter Soldier turns to look at me again and I fire up my repulsors.  
“And the hoodie person fought back! They just-“ there’s a pause, and then the sound of Clint firing an arrow. “They just knocked Cap down! I’m trying to hit them!”  
“They’re not HYDRA,” Nats voice tells me as I watch the Winter Soldier tilt this head slightly, making the blood drip down his face at an angle. “Their operatives always dress the same.”  
“Fine, then it’s any jerk who wants to take down Cap! Shoot them!” I say.  
“I’m checking it out,” Nat says.  
“Nat!” I say. “You want me to die?”  
“I’ve taken out most of them, and Winter isn’t attacking you anymore. You’ll live.”  
Clint mutters something. Then he yells far too loudly for the mic being in my ear. “Holy-“  
J notifies me that the coms are now active between all avengers. Immediately, I hear Cap.  
“She’s-strangling-me-“ there’s a gasping sound. The Winter Soldier continues studying me, apparently not caring that I’m ready to shoot him.  
“Sorry, man, I can’t hit her without shooting you,” Clint says in his concentration voice. 

“Do it,” Cap chokes out. “She’s going to kill me like this.”  
There’s a muffled female voice. It doesn’t sound like Nat, so it’s the person choking Cap. Unfortunately, I can’t help because someone has to watch this creepy dude. 

“I’m almost there,” Nat says. 

Cap keeps gasping out words that increasingly don’t make sense. 

Suddenly, there’s a gasping sound from his side of the coms. I hope he’s not unconscious as Captain Blizzard moves again. 

He puts his gun across his back. 

What?

Nat speaks in my ear. “No,” she breathes. “That’s not possible.”  
“I agree,” I say. “I’m not being shot right now, it’s incredible.”  
Nat doesn’t respond.  
“Who are you?” Steve asks. Presumably, he’s talking to the girl. There’s something muffled said. 

“Cap’s been stabbed!” Clint yells. “I’m firing!”  
“No!” Nat yells.  
“What?” Clint asks, clearly confused. “Why?”  
I see Winter slowly take out some weird box thing, and I have no want to figure out what it does. I back up quickly. “Oh no.”

“What?” Clint says. “Tony, are you okay?”  
The Winter Soldier raises the black box.  
“She’s picking up Cap’s coms!” Clint warms.  
The voice that comes through is high pitched in a way that is clearly fake. 

“Do what you want to the goons. Kill them as painfully as you want. But the Winter Soldier-“  
There’s a pause that sounds almost emotional.  
“Please don’t,” she says. “And Hawkeye, if you could not shoot me, that would be great.”  
There’s some muffled sounds that is kind of like she’s putting his stuff down. I watch the Soldier press something, and electricity arched out of the little black box. I lurch back, just barely missing the beam. There’s a crackling sound that’s too loud in my ears.  
“Woah!” I yell. “Captain Blizzard just became Captain Lightning!”  
“Tony?” Clint asks. “Wait-the HYDRA agents are attacking her-“  
Nat curses something in Russian. She says nothing else.  
“I’m backing her,” Clint says. “The enemy of my enemy is my friend.”  
Steve makes a groaning sound. I watch the Winter Soldier put away his black box.  
There’s a pause. Then Clint shrieks, “It?!” In my ear and I wince. “That jerk just called her an it!” He says quieter.  
“Okay,” I say, a little stunned.  
“Nat, what are you doing?” Clint asks. “Nat?”  
“Raven,” Nat yells. “Run.”  
“Nat, what’s going on?” I ask. “Clint?”  
“I have no idea!” Clint yells. Steve makes another groaning sound.  
“Is Banner in the scene yet?” I ask. He was feeling antsy earlier about letting the Hulk out in a bombing situation-who is there to smash?- but as soon as HYDRA agents were seen, he was called in.  
“Dr. Banner’s ETA is six minutes,” J informs me.  
“Nat!” Clint yells. 

“She’s gone,” Nat says simply.  
“Yeah, she is,” Clint says. “Nat, do you know her?”  
“She’s dead,” Nat says.  
“Clearly not,” I say, watching the Winter Soldier run off. I don’t move to stop him; as long as he’s not attacking me, I don’t particularly care. Fury can suck it, I’m not angering that dude, whether or not Fury wants it or if he’s Steve’s long lost BFF. 

“Blizzard’s gone,” I say. Nat mutters something else that I don’t catch.  
“Okay, someone grab Cap, we’re going back to the Tower,” Clint says. “And having a conversation in private.”

The trip back to the tower was only filled with the sound of Steve insisting that he’s fine. I don’t put him down, because his face is all bruised and he has a stab wound. Also, because I’m not a complete idiot. Only partially idiot. The rest is pure idiotic genius, if I do say so myself. 

When we get back, Nat grabs a bottle of straight whiskey from my bar and chugs it. I stare at her along with everyone else because I’ve never seen Nat drink. She probably thinks it would be dangerous to dull her senses that much. 

Nat puts the bottle down on the bar and sits on the couch as silently as ever. She doesn’t look affected at all, at least not yet. 

“That was the Raven,” she whispers. I set Steve down on the couch carefully and start bandaging him with JARVIS’ instructions.  
“Okay,” Clint says, sitting on the couch next to Nat. “You know her? Knew her?”  
“She taught me,” Nat whispers.  
“That’s impossible,” I say. My brows scrunch together on my forehead and I tie the final knot on Steve’s bandages. Steve is silent, nodding Nat along encouragingly from his position propped up on some pillows. “She’s definitely younger than you.”

Nat stares into space. “She’s…”

There’s a long pause. Nat isn’t usually very good with secrets (actually, she’s excellent with them; she’s bad at sharing secrets). She once told me that the conditioning she had when she was young makes it difficult for her to tell even little bits of information. Nat seems to not be able to say anything, so I do it.

“While we’re sharing secrets,” I say, standing up and getting my own shot of whiskey. “J said while we were fighting that the Winter Soldier matched facially to pictures of good old Bucky.”

Steve tries to sit up. I push him back down while finishing his bandaging. “What?” He demands. “Bucky’s alive?”

“One thing,” Nat says, looking like she’s physically forcing herself to say something. Everyone turns to her. “The Winter Soldier had multiple personality disorder, now known as dissociative identity disorder. From all the trauma, he gained two new personalities to deal with it.”

I take my shot of whiskey. 

Nat glances around the room. “I didn’t know what it was at the time,” she says, “I was just a kid. But the Raven knew something- she switched between calling him James and Winter. She only used Bucky once, and he was screaming and crying and having panic attacks pretty much the entire time.” 

Steve is pale.

“J, pull up all you can on dissociative whatever disorder,” I say, sitting down on the couch. 

“Dissociative identity disorder, sir,” J says, pulling up several holograms full of information. The one in front of Steve looks like the summary of it all. “A memory and personality disorder where memories are stored incorrectly, usually because of trauma, and different personalities arise from the different experiences and different memories each personality experiences.”

J continues into the silence. “People with DID usually have more than one additional personality, and they are all usually separate in personality, gender, age, and so on. They are usually reflective of the type of person the original personality believed would be able to handle the trauma they experienced or are experiencing. For example, a child could conjure an adult personality because they believe the adult personality would be more able to handle whatever they are going through. It is only developed in children, so I do not know how Sargent Barnes gained a case. However, for the personalities he developed, they are probably very different from Sergeant Barnes was prior to trauma. ”

I stare at the ceiling. “So Barnes would probably create some hard, tough guy who’s going to be really hard to convince to stand down.”  
“Yes, sir, especially because this personality would have no emotional connection to Mr. Rogers.”

I mutter a curse. Steve just looks confused. “You’re going to help me?” He asks. “Don’t you hate me?”

Clint sucks in a breath. Nat’s face goes carefully blank. 

“No one here hates you?” I say, more questioning than anything. “Like, yeah, you get on my nerves more often than not, but, like, you’re my friend? Why do you think you’re, like, here?”

Steve looks uncomfortable. “Because Fury asked you to,” he mutters. 

I stare at him. “No,” I say, “because I wanted you to.”

Clint speaks in the awkward silence after our awkward conversation. “So how do we help him?”  
Nat shrugs, forcibly calm. “He knows me, so I should probably talk to him. If that doesn’t work, just do it like he’s any trauma victim.”

Steve is still staring at me, and his face keeps changing in minute ways. Like he’s loading and the page is pulling up pixel by agonizing pixel. 

“Tony,” he says in a really soft voice. 

“That is my name,” I respond confidently, really uncomfortable. What is going on in his mind?

“Tony,” he says again. “I. Um, while we’re doing confessions…”

He trails off, getting lost in his own head. “Nat and I went to this army base earlier, and, uh, this scientist had copied his consciousness onto this room of computers. And, um, when he was talking about threats to HYDRA and how they were killed...he showed a picture of your dad. In a newspaper. The copy announcing he died in a car wreck.”

I stop. I become completely still for the first time in what’s probably been years. No flirty smiles, no smooth motions, no taking off or putting on my sunglasses with J in them. I think I stop breathing, too. 

Despite Howard “fighting” with the US in World War Two and not supporting any Nazism at all (Aunt Peggy once told me the story where he punched some man because he said the Jews deserved it), was not a good man. 

He was certainly a great man, but he was not a good man. 

He drank too much, hit when he was angry, and never thought anyone-most it all, me-could live up to Captain America. 

(Maybe that’s why Steve and I started off on the wrong foot, my childhood love/hate relationship with him...)

I remember him tearing apart some of my earliest inventions, demanding another glass of whiskey, snapping at Jarvis and Ana. I remember Mama crying with bruises on her wrists and Ana singing to her softly while hugging her. 

Mama wasn’t as bad. I loved that woman, despite her tendency to take too many pills at once and the way she sometimes stared into space and sang songs from her home country, Italy, in a language I only barely understood at age five. She made me authentic Italian pasta from scratch and taught me the piano when Howard kicked me out of the workshop. And maybe she was a little frigid after a gala or social, maybe she wore a blank smile and makeup too much when it was just us two, maybe it was true that she was gone for too long to truly be my parent. 

And even when Jarvis was the one to read me bedtime stories, and Ana was the one who patched up my scraped knees when I fell, and Jarvis was the one to watch me when I created some of my first designs in secret, and it was Ana who made the chocolate chip cookies I can still smell, I loved Mama. 

But she has been gone for a long, long time. I grieved her decades ago (not Howard, not after all the scars he left me with), and I accepted that she was dead. Maybe Howard pulled the wheel, maybe someone was driving drunk. Did it matter? Not really. Not anymore, not to me. 

The more important thing (Mama will never be meaningless to me, never, even if she will also never be Ana or Jarvis) is the fact that both Steve and Nat lied and kept this from me. 

We were told by Fury that there was an odd room uncovered on an army base (the same one that Steve became Captain America in) that kept asking for Cap. So he was sent with Nat (the best backup you can really get) to check it out. 

But that was months ago. 

Before I asked Steve what he was drawing and got an actual reply, sure. Before he started telling me stories of him growing up a small, sickly child. Before we really made friends, before we became stronger as a team. 

All of that, it was before. So maybe I can get why Steve didn’t tell me then-then, I had a love/hate relationship with Captain America still, not Steve Rogers. But why not now? After all of that? And why didn’t Nat say anything?

I had kind of gotten over Nat having secrets. There’s just some parts of her I’m never going to know. But when she’s keeping a part of me secret, that’s different. 

“What?” I ask, slightly dazed still. Then, more angrily, “What!?”

Steve winces. “I don’t know who did the job, but if HYDRA works the way Nat claims-“

“Winter or Raven probably did it,” Nat says. Clint looks completely lost. 

I resist the urge to curl my hands into fists and start punching. I resist the urge to stand up and yell as loud as I could. I resist the urge to do so many things. 

I take a long, deep breath. Communication is key, right?

“Rogers, Natasha,” I say, slowly looking up. “I don’t like the fact that you lied to me. I don’t like the fact that you didn’t tell me any of this despite my right to know. And I still want to help your friend, Steve, Natasha. But I’m going to need some time to myself.”

Then I get up and try my best not to run to the elevator. All of us know by now that “time to myself” means that I get to be in the workshop, not eating or sleeping, but creating, while I process whatever I’m stepping back from. It’s not the healthiest, maybe, but it’s a productive excuse that got the Board off my back in the past, and now it’s a soothing thing. 

Doing stuff with my hands and with my brain, that is. It always was, just now to a larger degree. (Building was always soothing, getting my chaotic thoughts outside my head was always calming.)

The elevator goes to the floor my workshop takes up silently. J doesn’t comment. 

The doors open and I almost immediately throw myself into projects I haven’t touched in forever. The new StarkPhone model. A better, longer lasting battery. Making it waterproof. An upgrade for the solar panel plans going out in a week. Signing forms electronically for Pepper. (Who gives me a worried phone call after I send in so much work at once, blowing me a kiss after saying goodbye but before cutting off the call that made me feel a bit better.) (She promises to come down with me after she’s finished downstairs.) I update the Spidey suit, making sure it’s stronger and more flexible than before. I stuff some binders in the chest portion for Peter that he can use it while on patrol safely. 

Nat leaves a plate of food outside my door. Bruce comes back, unHulkified, and talks to me calmingly through the door. Steve gives what could be considered an apology through the same one an hour later that makes me throw stuff at a few walls (Steve, for all his strengths, gives terrible apologies). Clint somehow attaches a bottle of sleeping pills and a friendly note to an arrow before shooting it straight into the workshop, giving me a heart attack (that was in hour fifteen of not sleeping, so maybe it was warranted).

I submerge myself in welding irons and scrap metal and try to process.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!


	10. Parks, Panic Attacks, and A Bit Of Kidnapping

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shay has a hard day. :(

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next chapter is probably going to take a while. School is kind of slowing things down. 
> 
> Warnings  
> Panic attacks  
> Shootings (tranq gun, non graphic)  
> Drugged victim of violence  
> Flashbacks  
> Paranoia?

I wake up from my coma after forty nine hours. Two full days, plus one hour and twenty two minutes. 

I spend my first minutes of wakefulness puking in my toilet and drinking water from the bathroom sink through cupped hands that is desperately needed. 

Then I attempt standing (I crawled to the bathroom) and find I can do it with only some minor nausea and head spinning. I’m even mostly on balance. 

Walking is an interesting adventure, but I need food and there’s none in the apartment. 

I ditch the hoodie in a dumpster and pick up a new one while I’m out, probably looking hangover or maybe just drunk. I also add to the drunk theory by eating five not-sausage pizzas within half an hour along with chugging seven glasses of water. 

Actually, maybe they thought I was crazy. I only saw myself briefly in a mirror I was passing-in the window of some clothes store-but my pulled up hoodie and the unhealthy tint to my skin probably didn’t help. 

I wonder if I should eat something different. But this is cheap, and I can pay for it without having to cook, which would take time and energy I don’t have right now. To compromise with myself, I put all the veggies and meats they offer on every pizza. 

I pay a little over a hundred twenty dollars for the meal. The man that took my cash looked terrified and muttered something about ancient gods like Thor and something called Twitter warning him. 

I don’t ask. I leave and purchase some awful tacos next door instead. 

I eat those in ten minutes, if we include the rice and beans that came with it. The four plates disappear before the shocked servers’ eyes. The woman who takes my money this time looks so tired that she’s barely conscious, though, not scared, so I’m extra polite to her. 

“If you’re starving, why do you have so much money?” She asks while taking the cash. “I thought you were going to not be able to pay.”

I think she’s tired enough to have lost her brain to mouth filter. 

I smile at her, planning to say something I normally wouldn’t. (Two reasons: one, no ones telling me not too, two, I will almost definitely never see her again.) She looks shocked at this small kindness. “The man who had it before me didn’t deserve it, he raped children.”

She stares at me while I flash back to him towering over me. I put my elbows on my hips to assure myself that his hands are not, in fact, pinning me in place. 

“Can I leave now?” I ask.  
“Can I call the cops on him?” She asks. 

I wave her off. “They’d be dead and he’s be gone by the end of that skirmish. Not worth the effort. I’m leaving, is that alright?”

“Uh, yeah,” she says. “You paid.”

“Cool,” I say, standing and immediately leaving. The girl stares after me, holding her money tightly. Her face is pale. 

Eating cost me a little under three hundred dollars. I walk to a park so I can sit in a place devoid of cameras and think. 

I caught the attention of the Avengers. They have a voice recording of me and may be able to identify and track me using it. I was careless enough to be caught by HYDRA in a scuffle that was very public. Winter was unresponsive, which, while not uncommon, could mean that they tortured him until he believed I’m a horrible traitor. 

Torture. 

(Cold, water, ice, trapped, cold water, burning, fire, knives, sharp, red, bloodstains, black hair, pale skin, screaming, running, falling, hot knives, shoved into the cryo chamber, a tranq to the back, the arm, the head, a needle pushing its way into my eye, fire spreading in my veins, more needles stuck in my arm-)

“...ey, hey, hey, hey, hey,” says some male voice lost in a sea of terror, holding me in place. I’m distantly aware of the warm park and green surrounding me, but I don’t feel like I’m there, not really. Like I’m dreaming it. “Um, ma’am, I’m going to have to touch you so you stop hurting yourself,” the voice says apologetically. 

Everyone is sorry. I don’t remember anyone being sorry. Mostly just angry. 

Then hands are touching me, not only in the real but also dream world but also in my head. 

(Hands sliding down my body, being tied down, the weight of hands holding me down, faces of dozens of people, sometimes men, sometimes women, sometimes wearing HYDRA uniforms, sometimes suits, sometimes nothing at all, and they are all touching me, no, no, no, not again, get AWAY-)

“Woah, oh my God, ow,” the male voice says. “You clawed me too, okay, I won’t touch you. Uh, focus on my voice? I’m Coal Collins, you probably know my mom, she’s Alexandra Collins, a real scandal…”

I try to focus on his voice, and eventually the real-dream-world becomes more real and less dream and the voices and hands in my head go away. 

“...and my twin sister was up all last night designing stupid stuff,” the guy says. I blink at him and notice pain in my arms. At first I flinch, thinking it’s the pinch of a needle stabbed in my arm, but when I look down, it’s my own fingernails jabbing into my skin. I pull them away, and some of them drip red just slightly. 

I wipe that off on my pants, my hands shaking slightly. That’s odd; they haven’t done that since a decade ago. “Oh, hi,” the guy says. “Are you better?”

The guy has amber eyes and red, wavy hair. I see a flush to his cheeks, which may be natural and may be from the heat. He’s wearing paint splattered black jeans and a red tee shirt advertising a high school somewhere in NYC. He’s kneeling in front of me, his pale hands hovering close enough that he could catch me if I fell over or something, but far enough away that he’s not touching me by any means. 

I can feel myself shaking, despite the warm temperature. The blood blends in with the dark color of my pants, but I feel like I can see it clearly. My hair is a mess, I’m sweaty enough that it’s pouring down my face and making my hair and clothes cling to my skin. My heart is running a race that I can’t see the end of, and there’s a pain in my thigh that I discover comes from the way I jabbed my leg into a stick in my panic. 

“Not much,” I say shakily, meaning slightly away from him because of the memory of hands and voices that started out nice and didn’t end that way. “Sorry.”

If I apologize, people think I’m weaker. And bad people love weak people. Sometimes they’re nicer because you’re weak. Instead of a flash of pain, I might get a sly grin that makes my skin crawl and my face light up automatically with a very fake but very convincing fake smile. 

Bad people like grinding weak people under their heel, and sometimes you have to let them. 

“No, don’t apologize,” the guy says, leaning back until he’s sitting cross legged on the ground in front of me. My hands shake when I try to fix my hair. “Not your fault. My sister gets those sometimes. I don’t know what about, she won’t tell me.”

I look at him. “What are they?” I ask. 

(No you have to be weak, he’s going to-)

His face contorts, and fear washes over me. He opens his mouth and says, “You don’t know?” In a kind of shocked way. 

I shrink in on myself and shake my head in the submissive way people usually like. “Sorry.”

“No, don’t be, the way I said that was rude,” Coal says. “Having anxiety or PTSD can cause something like that. An attack. If you have anxiety, it’s an anxiety attack, and if you have PTSD, it’s called a flashback.”

I stare at him. I think my entire body is shaking, it feels like my skin is vibrating all over. 

“What’s...PTSD…?” I ask, hesitant. Coal hasn’t acted like the hands and voices yet, but sometimes they act nice before. 

I know what anxiety is-anxiousness is an emotion I’m aware of. But I’m sure I must have the wrong context-it must be one of those words with two meanings. 

“PTSD is a mental disorder that comes from trauma your brain can’t process properly,” Coal says gently. “One of my sister’s friends once described it as your brain being unable to store it properly in its memory so it just sticks around and forces the person to relive it while the brain tries to process the information. That’s why people usually dream about the stuff they’re traumatized by, ‘cause that’s when the brain processes stuff but it can be triggered by something you do when awake, too.”

I glance up at him, then down at my legs. I say nothing. “Anxiety is a mental disorder where you’re really anxious for a really long time,” Coal says. “And panic attacks-or anxiety attacks-are caused when that all kind of comes crashing down on you.”

I nod hesitantly, not really understanding. “Okay.”

“What’s your name?” Coal asks. 

I don’t want to give it to him, but he might hurt me if I don’t. “Shay,” I whisper, hoping he doesn’t hear. 

“I didn’t hear that,” Coal says, not angry at all. “But mine’s Coal. Coal Collins. It’s nice to meet you.”

He holds out his hand. I put mine in his so slowly, I think he’ll drop it before I get there, but he waits patiently, and we eventually shake hands. His grip is so loose that it must be intentional. 

I take my hand away equally slowly, just in case he’s offended. He doesn’t question it. 

“Can I give you my phone number?” Coal asks. “Don’t give it to any one else, but, like, if you have another one of these, you could call me…”

He trails off, looking uncertain. 

“Sure,” I say hesitantly. He might get angry if I don't. “Here.” I give him my phone. He calls his own and hands mine back to me.  
“Now you can just check your past calls list and you’ll have my number,” he tells me. “Anyway, I have to go. I have a painting class in, like, ten minutes. See you.” He gets up, brushes himself off, and waves at me as he disappears. 

“Bye,” I say softly, after he’s out of hearing range. 

I sit in the park for a while after that. Reassuring myself with the softly swaying grass and trees, with all the green, the bright flowers and the pavement winding through it all. The soft chatter of people strolling along, the laughter of children as they play (I tense every time one shrieks but ultimately it’s okay), the sound of a dog playing fetch (or trying to, apparently Taco doesn’t want to drop the ball), the snores of a homeless man that I want to pile clothes and money on top of (I decide a hundred dollar bill in his pocket will do). 

I leave around noon, two and a half hours after I got there. 

I go home a completely different way then how I got to the park. I try to keep my routes random to avoid ambushes that are planned and therefore more lethal. 

Home is boring. I go through the apartment for cameras and mics, clean the disgusting shower (oh my God, What is that weird color doing here), and do some more research on the world. 

Apparently America is awful now. Who knew? Also, China is trying to take over the world and North Korea is somewhere between Hell and causing Armeggedon. 

Oh look, we’ve been to the moon. (Are they literally just wearing cloth space suits? How are they alive?) And apparently there was a big wall in Berlin at one point. And now there’s superheroes. Fun. 

(Running on rooftops, kicking a man in the gut, a gun flying out of a hand, a person thanking me in whispers and fleeing, the night sky cut only by the factories’ smokestacks in the distance, screaming as a family is taken away in the dead of night, blood-)

I hit my head against the wall to draw myself back to reality through the pain. It works okay. 

I keep researching. Apparently we’ve created self aware robots and then shut them down because they got smart and started lying. And America continued being morally corrupt by dropping a few nuclear bombs on a country that was going to surrender anyway. Also, vaccines. Cool. 

I leave to get more food. This time, I go to a proper grocery store. I buy basics-a microwave, a bunch of microwaveable meals, potatoes, a bag of apples, a few glasses, a box of plastic silverware. I grab some veggies and a few boxes full of cups of mac n cheese that I can apparently make in the microwave. 

I keep my hood up the entire time. No one pays me much attention. I keep a knife handy anyways. 

I do get a few weird looks on the way home, but I think that’s because I’m holding a boxed up microwave in one hand easily and the rest of my groceries in the other. Probably. Hopefully. 

Anyway, no one tries to blow me up and/or drug me, so it’s checked off as a rousing success. 

I get back to my apartment just in time to hear the yelling. It comes from the apartment over me, and I can hear it easily through the ceiling above me. 

“Shelby, are you trying to make me mad?!” A man roars. I open the door to my apartment swiftly and deposit my stuff on the counter before turning around and going back out again. After locking the door behind me, I speed walk towards the stairs. 

“No!” A woman, Shelby, responds. “Look, Michael-“  
“Oh, just Michael?” There’s a loud smacking sound. I automatically recognize it as the sound of a slap. “You ungrateful little-why are you crying, are you really that weak?”

I get to their door very quickly. I slide on knife into my hand just in case and knock harshly with the other. 

“Shelby, get your useless self up and answer the door,” Michael snarls. 

“Okay,” Shelby whispers. Usually, I wouldn’t be able to hear something that quiet, but the walls are paper thin, not soundproofed, and I’m standing around two feet from her. 

The door opens. Shelby has messy brown hair pulled back into a ponytail. Her cheek is reddening slightly in the shape of a large hand. I can see the bruising on her wrists, as well, but the coloring suggests they aren’t recent. 

“Hi,” I say. “I’m your neighbor. I just wanted to ask why Micheal is hitting you in such a way.”

Shelby’s eyes widen. I push her out of the way gently. 

Behind her is a man white white skin and blond hair that probably has clones playing on every professional football team in America, if the American football teams I saw in a news feed earlier only employed men with a slight beer gut and the ugliest haircut to see the light of day. 

“Hello,” I tell Michael coldly. “Is this your apartment?”

“Yes it is,” Michael says harshly, “And I don’t don’t like that you’re in it. Get out.”

“I am not in your apartment,” I remind him. “Miss Shelby, do you have any belongings here?”

Shelby nods timidly. “My, uh, clothes-and, and I have-I left my-“ 

“That’s alright,” I say. “Can you please grab your things and step out into the hall with me?”

Shelby glances back at Michael. She quickly grabs some clothes off the floor and grabs something I don’t see while I stare him down. 

“Michael,” I say icily, “Stay where you are.”

I don’t know where all this cold anger came from. Usually, I’m just scared. Paranoid, but someone is actually out to get me. Hyperactive. 

Now, I’m business like. I’m the way Raven always was, but also not. This is the opposite. Raven hid emotions and got a bad job done that she didn’t like. Right now, I’m acting on my emotions on a way Raven would never dream to (once I started dreaming I was always wiped), getting s good job done that I feel good about. 

Shelby scurries our into the hallway. Or, rather, she gets very close. 

As she hesitates in the doorway, Shelby, looking back at a frozen Michael, says, “He’s not a bad guy, and he hasn’t been doing this much. What if-“

“Shelby,” I say while I watch Michael’s face go a remarkable shade of crimson. He’s moving now, placing one foot in front of the other towards Shelby. Even at his pace, due to the size of the apartment, he’ll be on her in about thirty seconds. “He hurt you.”

Then I take her arm and pull her into the hallway. She winces slightly-bruising must be underneath her long sleeves-and I loosen my grip while closing the door in Michael’s face. 

I turn to Shelby as I feel my hands start to shake under the weight of old memories. (Angry faces lunging forward, angry fists pummeling-)

Shelby is staring at me. I nod at her and walk away, my hands twitching with the need to defend myself against invisible foes. 

“Um, excuse me!” Shelby yells from behind me. I stop and focus on my breathing. No one is attacking me. If Michael comes out, I can take him. Everything is okay. 

“Thank you!”

I nod, not turning to look at her, and keep going, a bit faster this time. 

I get to the apartment and close and lock the door behind me with hands shaking so badly I can hardly do it. 

My legs collapse under me. I wrap my arms around my core (always protect your organs when you’re down and can’t defend yourself) and try my best to breathe. 

I take in a shuttery breath too fast and release it, my head spinning. 

(Being strapped down to cold metal chairs, harsh leather digging into my skin as I strain, a muzzle on my face, something in my mouth, tasting my blood, smelling someone else’s blood, pulling the trigger of a rifle stolen from a corpse-)

I come back to myself fully around fifteen minutes later. The panic fled from my chest five minutes before then, but I stayed on the floor until my body finished its shaking and the room had enough of spinning. 

I stand up and plug in my microwave. The door slams behind my microwave meal. I follow the instructions and collapse against the counter while I wolf it down. 

When I finish, I go downstairs to pop it into the dumpster, seeing as how I don’t have a trash can but do have a lot of time. While I’m there, I notice that my hoodie is gone from the thing. A homeless person must have grabbed it. I hope it serves them well. 

Actually, it’ll probably get them chased down by an organization made up of terrorists and spies. Well, I hope they are proportioned differently than me. 

I stop at the mouth of the alley when I hear footsteps on the rooftop. 

I turn slightly, pretending to tie my hair into a ponytail. I look up as I do this and see-

Someone. Who I evaluate footsteps and height and come to the conclusion that this is a tall male with a healthy weight and a lot of strength. 

I stare him into the eyes of his mask. They are two snowflakes, the rest of his suit lost to a large blizzard made up of shifting greys and whites. The suit is skin tight, but I can see the outline of things other than a body underneath the suit-that’s not just cloth, it has metal and wires under there. 

The blizzard boy-he can’t be more than twenty, and that’s if I’m generous-jumps down into the alley. 

“Hi,” he says. 

I don’t respond. (A tall man looks over me. I am stronger than him, but the mission assigns me the cover of a weak little girl. I can’t-) 

“I’m Jagged Frostbite,” He says. I decide that this name is even more stupid than Spider-Man’s. 

I put my hands down and slip a knife into my hand from where he can’t see. 

“Hello,” I say politely. “I don’t need help right now.”

Jagged Frostbite laughs. “Oh, yeah, I know. I just wanted to make sure you weren’t jumped in a back alley trying to take out the trash. You can scamper along.”

I give him a nod, not turning around to walk away, not knowing what “being jumped” is. Probably something violent. In that case, I’ll be fine. The knife stays in my hand as I back slowly out of the alley, keeping my eyes on Jagged Frostbite.

I’m quickly back in my apartment. I decide to just pass out, so I throw myself onto my blow-up mattress and ready myself for more nightmares.

I wake up four times. Once to a loud honking sound, another time to a passing set of footsteps by my door (they didn’t stop at all, low threat), to some loud laughter hear through the walls, and the last time when the person above me started blasting music at eight am. 

The next day, which I’m forced to wake up to because I have no curtains, I’m exhausted. For some reason, all the “attacks” are exhausting. 

Maybe that’s why things went wrong. 

Not immediately-I ate my breakfast (lots of the food I bought earlier, microwaved) in peace. But it was after that when my world started to implode. 

I went out to get more food because I should probably eventually eat something other than microwaved, prepackaged foods. (I don’t trust the future’s cuisine. What’s wrong with cooking?) I managed to get all the way to the grocery store and buy food (stuff like vegetables and fruits) before it goes wrong.

I’m measuring the pace of the crowd in order to better blend in while it happens, which explains why I wasn’t scanning for danger. 

A tranq hits me in my shoulder. 

The brief shot of pain and panic fades quickly to the calm calculation that usually happens in a fight. 

Raven’s back.

(Scan for danger.) (Mission priorities: get out relatively unharmed, minimize civilian and proprietary damages, leave unfollowed.) (Scan results: crowd scattering due to loud sound of tranq being fired; chaos able to hide hostiles. Continuously scan for danger in response. Buildings are mostly secure; forward to the right best spot to take cover from.) 

A knife slides into my hand. My hood flies up (disguise should be abandoned after ambush), my hair is pulled back into the shadows, the hood cinches closed. My legs find themselves in a fighting stance. 

(The shot hit my subclavian artery perfectly. The only one with that good a shot is Winter, maybe James. A strike team may also be following me.) (Tactical response: take cover until able to locate and talk down or forcibly subdue Winter/James. Evaluate status of potential strike team; scanning needed.)

(Potential locations of possible strike team: rooftops; scanning needed. Balconies-balcony status negative in nearby area of visibility, unlikely. Hiding within crowd to ambush; crowd scanning continuously needed due to higher danger possibility.) (Scan status: negative. Danger: high. Cover needed. Scan for most secure place.) (Alley?)

I dodge into an alley. It’s certainly not secure, but it decreases my chances of being sniped, and I don’t need more of this drug in my system. 

(Ambush possibility: high. Locations most likely to be prone to: rooftops, alley opening.)

I back into the alley, effectively cornering myself. An acceptable risk. I slide a handgun into each hand and a knife into a more accessible place. Then I make sure the guns are loaded and flip off the safety off both. 

With my head tilted slightly up while facing the street, I can see the entirety of the openings. I strain for any sound while I lean myself up against the wall in preparation for my eventual collapse. 

(One tranq of dosage knocked me unconscious in about half an hour. I have a little less than that until I’m unconscious and vulnerable. Priority added (temporarily, expires after mission): remove self to safe location in less than thirty minutes.)

A scraping sound that wouldn’t be audible over the last of the fleeing crowd to a human. I recognise it as the metal of Winter’s mask rubbing against the plastic. 

Of course. I wouldn’t be able to hear his footsteps; both of us have long been trained out of making sound when we walk. But sometimes, one last scrap of humanity they haven’t been able to erase, James tries to speak despite the muzzle he wears all the time.

I’m dealing with James.

“Hello, James,” I say. “Planning on shooting me?”

Another scraping sound.

I look at him. His eyes are a little more expressive than Winter’s. Still emptier than most-trauma does that-but he’s got a little more personality because he’s been around a few years longer. He’s also more expressive in general than Winter.

His gun remains strapped to his back. I don’t aim my guns at him, instead aiming both of them at the alley entrance. (Don’t provoke the target.) 

“Is there a strike team with you?” I ask. Might as well try for information. 

James stiffens. It’s almost unnoticeable-practically invisible. But I’ve known him long enough to notice the arch of his neck tighten just so and how his shoulders lower less than a centimeter, maybe a millimeter. 

(Probability of strike team: high.)

“James,” I say. “I am going to take off your muzzle now. Please do not attack me.”

I reach forward slowly enough that he can telegraph my movements but quick enough that I appear confident. 

The muzzle hits the concrete at the same time I do. At first, I think James did it, or maybe my balance decreased that much from the drug. But then I glance up and see him, and he only moved his head. I follow his gaze and see the uniform of a strike team member; black as you can get and armed to the teeth. The woman is standing on top of a building to our right, a floor above us. She’s holding some sort of gun-type thing that’s glowing a concerning color of blue.

Shoot, that’s alien tech. 

My stomach lurches with panic and drugs. I scramble to my feet, thankful that it just knocked me down. 

A memory, slightly shattered; a man screaming as a beam of blue light hits him, a body hitting the ground, vicious smiles.

I start sprinting away, darting out of the alleyway. If I get hit by a tranq now, I might be able to make it. But if I remain in-range of alien tech, I’m unlikely to be able to make it anywhere but the afterlife. 

Another tranq hits me in my core. I rip it out instantly and estimate where the shooter would be through the angle, returning fire. I put my gun down when I hear a pained shout. 

The gun falls to the ground because I’ve lost a lot of mobility in my fingers. I ignore it, scanning desperately with my slowly blurring vision. 

(The drug is being digested rapidly. Repeated dosage will lead to organ failure. Priorities decreased: only priority is to get to safety.)

I can feel my muscles weakening and my body straining under the drug. Sweat pours off my skin, forcing me to wipe my eyes. When my hand comes away, I realise the wetness may also be tears. 

I haven’t cried in years, I think. Maybe that’s why it surprises me so much. Victory washes through me-no weapon of HYDRA cries, I’m breaking free of them-but also disgust. Tears mean failure, they told me until I believed it. Tears mean weakness.

I force my hands to my side, pumping in a familiar way. 

My vision blurs even more and darkens for a second, so much that I have to run blind. But I could run my surrounding blind at any time, it’s part of my extensive training. It just makes me less prepared against attacks. When my vision sways back into place, my sense of balance topples right out of line. The world spins (or, rather, the vomit-inducing feeling of my own brain swaying in my skull), and I can’t think much anymore.

I fall. 

Not because I tripped, but because my legs can no longer hold my weight, acting as if I weigh equal to the entirety of America.

My arms barely respond-reduced to liquid-but I drag myself to my elbows and start dragging myself away, one arm flailing for a knife for a second before discovering that my fingers don’t have that much dexterity at all and just focusing on moving away (get away, no, they will hurt you, run, move, drag, move, please, no, not again).

I pass out as I feel myself roughly grabbed from behind.


	11. Tony Stark Being An Idiot

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tony is a mess. Peter is confused and slightly hurt. And Shay’s Kidnapping from Tony’s point of view. Enjoy!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guess who was super productive????
> 
> Triggers  
> Insomnia  
> Tony’s usual bs lol   
> Panic attacks/anxiety   
> Flashbacks

I pause when Pepper comes into the workshop on the third day of barely dozing, consuming only coffee, and not showering in favor of creating random projects.

She looks perfect, as usual-crisp bun, no hair out of place, sky-high heels, her clothes-a blue dress- unwrinkled. It’s only marred when the mask comes down, her face worried.

“Tony?” she asks, spotting me. “What’s going on? This usually ends after a day.”  
I glance down at what I’m doing (when did I pick up the welding iron and when did it start burning my arm?). The smell of burnt flesh hits my nose and I move my arm before it can get to Pep, switching the iron off. 

I also don’t answer. I can’t force the words ‘they betrayed me, Pep’ past my lips.

Pepper’s face collapses into something soft, and she quickly sweeps across the room and pulls me into a hug. I press my face into her shoulder, squeezing her tight. 

I’m suddenly aware of the grease and oil stains all over me, the slight singed appearance of my four thousand dollar three piece suit, how greasy my hair must be by now. 

“Tony,” Pepper whispers, “Please give me something.”

“That would break me,” I whisper back, barely making a sound.

Pepper hugs me tighter. “So would this. You can’t just skip eating and sleeping, Tony. And while I’m sure the Board loves your productivity, I’m far less enthusiastic and a lot more important, so how about we take a little break?”

I draw back, shaking my head. I know that she’s right, that I have to take care of myself (what idiot doesn’t know that?), but I can’t manage the energy for it. I can only think about my one processing strategy-taking me emotions out on all the ideas that are constantly scattered around my brain. 

It’s a restart. Get everything out, eat some food, get some sleep (probably on the couch in the corner, getting to my floor, never mind my bed, is often too much energy), and handle what I couldn’t before. Why does no one understand that? I need to complete step one before getting to the next one.

Pepper sighs and lets me go. “I’m going to go out for a second, okay? I have to grab something,” she says, offering me one last smile before speed walking out of the room.

I go back to my project (creating a prosthetic arm able to feel like a bionic one), surprised she let me continue. I barely notice when she returns fifteen minutes later with something in her hand. I just start ranting with one hand free to express my feelings, and she slips something into it. I take a bite of the burger subconsciously and continue ranting about simulating neurons. 

It’s only after three burgers and two drinks are gone that I realise what happened. Pepper gives me a huge grin and a quick hug (disrupting my attempts at putting tools away) before putting the trash into one of the shoots in the walls. 

I scowl and continue while making a big show of how peeved I am, despite the fact that I do feel better. 

Pepper perches on one of my less-used work tables and makes some calls, answers some emails, and generally works remotely.

Then Rhodey walks in. 

I glance up at smile before going back to work. “Honey bear! What are you doing here? I already have a babysitter, you didn’t need to leave work.”  
Rhodey approaches seriously. “Tones, you need to sleep,” he says, hands on his hips like a scolding mother.   
I scoff, finishing up some wiring. “Noted, honey bear, but I’m a little busy right now.”  
Rhodey isn’t impressed. “Tones, either you sleep for five hours, or I get Peter down here and let him see why you’ve been ignoring him for the last three days.”

I freeze, then whip my head up to look at Rhoey. “He thinks I’ve been ignoring him?!” I demand.  
Rhodey rolls his eyes. “What did you expect? You usually drive him over here and work with him, or at least text him at some point. He’s been asking Happy why you hate him, I think.”

I immediately take out my phone and check my texts from Peter. 

Spider Boy  
Hey Mr. S, wanna hang out and upgrade the suit this afternoon? (two days ago, 7:22 AM)

Mr. S it’s okay if you’re busy but I need to know before the end of the day (two days ago, 12:05)

Hi Mr. Stark! Going out for patrol, wondering if you are willing to take some ideas for suit upgrades? (two days ago, 7:22)

Hey Mr. Stark, I hope you have a good morning. I wanted to ask what I did wrong for you to ignore me like this, since you usually respond quickly (yesterday, 7:31 AM)

Hi Mr. Stark, just wanted to apologize for whatever it was. I’ll stop annoying you now (today, three hours ago)

I don’t need a mirror to know all the blood has left my face. I press call immediately. 

As it rings, I nervously rant. “Why wasn’t I told Peter texted? J, why didn’t you tell me?”

“If you recall, sir, I informed you each time Mr. Parker texted, but you each time you denied in favor of continuing your projects.”

Of course. I just denied to reply on instinct, refocusing immediately. God, I’m an awful person. 

Peter picks up. “Mr. Stark?” he asks, so much quieter than usual. In a normal call, Peter is all pep and excitement, and I can hardly get in a word.   
“I’m so sorry, Pete, I just-” I pause, not being able to find a word for what I’ve been doing. Peter has never seen me like this. Pepper picks up my phone for me, gently taking it from my hand.   
“Hey, Pete, ” she tells Peter. “Tony has been having a few bad days, but he doesn’t hate you and he wasn’t ignoring you.”  
“Oh,” Peter says softly. Then, a second later, “Mr. Stark! That’s okay! I just wish I had known, I would have come over and helped you feel better!”

I smile. Peter’s back to himself. 

“What were those suit upgrades you were going to ask me about, kid?” I ask, glad we’re back to normal.   
Peter spends the next fifteen minutes gabbering excitedly and I spend it grinning like an idiot. Then Pepper insists Peter must have homework, he admits he has a math test to study for, and the call ends. 

Rhodey crosses his arms, but it’s underplayed by the way he’s smiling with his eyes. “You need to sleep to be able to do those upgrades.”

I laugh a bit, rubbing at the burn on my arm from the iron. My eyes, I realize, are itchy with exhaustion. “Yeah, I guess I do.”

Rhodey takes me by the arm and leads me to bed, Pepper following on behind (I can tell by the click of her heels). Dummy, U, and Butterfingers all give me their usual goodbye pats and beeps as I’m escorted away. Pepper pats each of them goodbye for me.

I sleep for twelve hours, passing out instantly. Once I wake up, I’m still a little groggy, but much more functional. 

And I much, much more functional after J gives me a wake up call while I’m eating my breakfast. “Sir, I have found a match for Ms. Li from a cell phone video. She appears to be under attack from HYDRA agents and the Winter Soldier. Should I assemble the Avengers?”

I practically throw my bowl of almost-finished cereal onto the counter. “Yes! J, where is she? Pull up the information!”

A hologram pulls up and moves with my while I sprint to our assembling point and the alarm to assemble goes off. 

Miss Shay Li  
Current status: in need of assistance (under assault)  
Distance: eighteen blocks, five minute fly in armor at top speed  
Health status: appears drugged; slightly delayed reactions (compared to personal average) and extra-normal movement patterns  
[link to collected data on Miss Shay Li]  
Added notes: Miss Li is currently potentially hostile and drugged. Approach with caution, do not harm. Under assault; attackers: HYDRA strike team/ Winter Soldier. 

I barely even glance at the expressions on the team’s faces, especially those on Natasha’s and Steve’s in favor of getting the armor on faster. As soon as I’m online, I’m flying off. I assume the other head out behind me, not looking back.

Five minute ETA. She could die in that time. Actually, she’s likely to die in that time, even if she’s as good as Natasha, due to close quarters and how outgunned and outnumbered she is.

I grumble frustratedly. “J, show me a video of what’s going on,” I order. 

Footage taken from a shaky cell phone video shows a figure in a pulled-up hoodie being shot at with what looks like darts as the crowd scatters. The figure looks like the height and build of Shay, so I assume it’s her. I hear screaming, but she looks perfectly calm as she scans the area.

I’m impressed; she clearly has training. What normal teenage would be so calm while being shot at?

The figure starts running. I hope Shay found safety, she’s going to need it.

The video cuts off as the person taking it is swept away in the crowd. “J?”  
“Sorry, sir,” JARVIS says, “No other video shows more information.”

“Just show me anything!” I yell.

“A video taken one minute ago,” J announces.

It’s another shaky cell phone video showing pretty much the same thing, just from a different angle. I take in as many details as possible. Shay pulled up her hood and tightened the strings so no one can see her face. She has a fighting stance, leaving her less likely to be knocked down if this gets really serious. 

It’s only after about three minutes of anxious video watching that a new video appears, live streaming from two minutes away. 

It shows Shay sprinting away from an alley, hoodie still obscuring her face. While her motions are all clearly confident, she has a certain urgency to her now. She also has this weird way of moving now; a little more sluggish, a tad more clumsy.

Things are getting really serious. 

And then she collapses, when I am a minute and twelve seconds away. Seventy two seconds before I can begin to start to defend her. 

At seventy seconds, she drags herself onto her elbows. The person taking the video has a shaky hand, and when the video sways away from Shay for a second, I almost growl. Then I can see her again, I’m sixty-eight seconds away, and Shay is moving away from doing something and is starting to army crawl/drag herself forward. 

I swallow down the need to throw up when I see a figure approaching in the background, clearly HYDRA. And then I have to hold back shouts when Shay collapses, and the figure approaches. A hand hidden behind a black glove grabs Shay by the back of the hoodie, and as the figure lifts her into the air, I can see that she’s unconscious. 

Fifty-four seconds. The figure hauls Shay over their shoulder clumsily and starts to move out of view. Forty-three seconds. The camera angle changes so I can see a group of black figures climbing out of buildings nearby. Forty seconds. Shay is handed off to the Winter Soldier, who carries her much more thoughtfully and confidently. Thirty-seven seconds. The group waits, the Winter Soldier staring into Shay’s face blankly. I can’t tell what he’s thinking about. Thirty seconds. Twenty-five. Twenty. The camera angle switches suddenly, and I can hear an awful audio recording of the sound of a helicopter. And then I can see it, a fully black one, heavily armed in a way I’ve never seen before. The Soldier follows when three of the agents board. Ten seconds. The rest of the agents scatter, starting to head to safety. I can faintly hear police sirens.

Five seconds. I order J to watch the video and to inform me if anything noteworthy happens, and I fly into the scene.

I blast the helicopter first, but it lifts off the ground unexpectedly, so I miss. The agents scream warnings and scatter, except the ones in the helicopter. Those aim guns at me. The Soldier just looks at me mildly, almost as if bored by my existence. 

I hit one of the rotating blades of the helicopter. It leans dangerously and rocks ominously but doesn’t crash. I hit the building where the helicopter used to be. I growl and hit the inside of the helicopter on a completely random frustrated shot. Thankfully, the Soldier gracefully steps aside and Shay is safe. All I do is manage to knock all but one of the goons out of the ‘copter. 

Shay remains unconscious, despite all the explosions and screaming. I’m starting to worry that she’s actually dead, except J has a heat scanner in the corner of my vision, and she’s still at her “normal”, which is around a fever of 105 degrees. (J also is running her stats and averages, and all of them are just as wack as when he made me look at them when Shay first came into my workshop.) Bullets ricochet off the sides of the armor, but I barely notice. I hear the familiar roar of the Hulk in the distance and know that the rest will be too late. 

I dive forward and try to catch up with the helicopter as it flies away. But the fire raining down on me narrows down to one shoulder-my left, they must have some sort of aiming system-and it’s right at a joint in the armor, so it chips away more easily, and soon there’s a bullet in my shoulder.

My mind flashes back to Afghanistan and I have to grit my teeth to hold back a scream and the tears. 

(The sound of gunfire ricocheting off cave walls, blinding pain in my chest, blood trailing down red, irritated skin, the rolling desert sand, dried blood coatingthe inside of my mouth and nose, explosions-)  
(The cold vacuum of space, the knowledge that I will die alone, everything was worthless, no one will ever find my body, imagining suffocation, cold fear, the fear of self-sacrifice, the swallowing blackness-)  
(Alien blood splattering, high pitched screaming, alien weapons aimed towards me, a black hole in the sky-)  
(Suffocation-)  
(Blood-)  
(Explosions-)  
(Pain-)  
(Howard throwing a beer bottle at my head-)  
(Confusion-)  
(Why-)  
(No-)  
(Please, no-)  
(Faces of the dead-)  
“Tony?”  
(Stars, blinding me-)  
(Screaming, crying-)  
(I’m alone, so alone-)  
“Tony!”  
Someone’s shaking me-  
(Rattling around in a suit made of scraps, fire roasting my skin, explosions ringing in my ears, adrenaline in my veins-)  
“How do we open the suit?”  
(Fear, suffocation, fire-)  
(Drowning-)  
(Dying?)  
“I don’t know!”  
(Blood, so much blood-)  
(Gunfire-)  
(Mama pale on the floor, bottle of pills in hand-)  
(Ringing in my ears-)  
(Freezing water-)  
(So cold it burns-)  
(Burns-)  
“Tony,” a voice I think I know says. What woman I know sounds like that? “You need to come back to us.”  
Is Pepper here? No, that’s not her voice-  
(Blackness, the empty that is space-)  
(The people I have killed-)  
(I’m going to die alone-)  
“Tony, please,” the not-Pepper-woman says.   
“He’s not breathing right,” another voice says. A man. Who?  
“Shut it, Cap.” Another man. Why don’t I know anyone?  
“HULK SORRY?” Yelling. I flinch, but maybe just on the inside.  
“No, not you, you didn’t do this,” Man #2 says.  
(Yelling in a language I don’t know, a bag over my head-)  
(Shrapnel-)  
(Confusion-)  
(Fear-)  
(Pain-)  
(Dying alone-)  
(Suffocating-)   
“Anthony Edward Stark,” Not-Pepper says, “I can understand why you wouldn’t want to hear my right now, but you need to do this anyway. I need you to breathe a little slower.”  
But I can’t.  
(Dying-)  
(Crying-)  
(Bleeding-)  
“Tony, please,” says Man #1, with a ring of familiarity this time. Cap... Cap? “Please, I...I’m sorry, I’m sorry I kept things from you, I’m sorry I couldn’t get here fast enough to save Raven, I’m...I’m so sorry, Tony.”  
(Tired-)  
(Pain-)  
(Terror-)  
(Sadness-)  
(Blackness-)  
(Looming-)  
(No-)  
“Tony, I’m going to talk about stupid stuff until you calm down. So, last week, I ate a donut. And it was a pretty good donut. You know, sprinkles, frosting, the works-”  
(Dying alone-)  
(Blast-)  
(Rattling in my bones-)  
(Hunger clawing up my throat-)  
(Tears in my eyes-)  
“But the blasphemous thing is-the free coffee I got with it was about as appetizing as dishwater. Tasted like watery trash and sadness-”  
(Blood and tears mix-)  
(Screaming rings-)  
(Metal screeching-)  
(Gunfire-)  
(The echoes of a cave wall-)  
(Drowning, splashing, no-)  
“Way off from the best donut I’ve ever eaten-my wife, you know Laura, was experimenting with all these kinds of foods-”  
(Bullets-)  
(Fear-)  
(Pain-)  
“-and she made this apple pit type filling and then made that the filling of the donut, and then she put powdered sugar on top, so much that it fluffed into the air and on your face when you bit into it, and it was absolute heaven.”  
(A baby shrieking-)  
(Smell of desert heat-)  
“And, like, this other time while she was experimenting, she made this fish type thing, and I don’t know what she did to it, but it tasted awful. And I know you probably haven’t had to eat the worst thing you’ve ever put in your mouth with a smile because your kids don’t want to eat this fish that tastes like barf and is piss yellow-”  
(Blistering-)  
(Dying-)  
“-but it’s awful, my dude. And, by the way, have I mentioned how much I love my wife? Because I really love my wife. She’s incredible, dude. And, of course, so is Nat, my beautiful girlfriend, our third-”  
“Clint,” says the not-Pepper-Nat-woman.   
“Right, anyway-”  
(Stinging-)  
“Stop giving me that look, Cap, it’s not as weird as your blush makes it look-”  
“But cheating is-”  
“I’m not cheating!”  
(Alone-)  
“But-”  
“Nat and Laura are also together! All three of us are together! Stop giving me that doubting look-”  
(Screaming-)  
“I just-”  
“I love both of my lovers, and both of my lovers love each other and me! That’s how polyamorous relationships work!”

I gasp in air and then groan, my eyes finally seeing. The pain in my shoulder flares. The rubble from the building I hit is smoking slightly, barely visible with the entire team huddled around me. Nat nods approvingly, smiling gently at me. Clint gives me a fist bump to the shoulder. Hulk roars victory, which makes my shaking body flinch, and Steve scolds him before turning back to me, something soft in his eyes. 

“Welcome back, Tony,” Cap tells me.  
“Please shut up,” I groan, shutting my eyes. Panic attacks always exhaust me. So It makes sense that right now, all I want to do is sleep. 

Steve still smiles at me. “Are you okay to walk? I can carry you to the helicopter.”

My limbs still shake, but I refuse to be carried anywhere like a fever dream ten-year-old-me might have. Absolutely not, I am not reigniting my crush with Mr. Always Better Than Me In Howard’s Eyes, no matter how many bullet wounds I have.

I stumble to my feet and lean on Nat, who doesn’t even have to lean to take almost all of my weight. She doesn’t even look effected at all.

Bruce is standing in the middle of the street, in just the stretchy pants I made for him when he gets a tad too angry. Clint gives him a shirt in his size (reading: you wouldn’t like me when I’m mad) apparently hidden in the spot I made in the bottom of his upgraded quiver. (The compartment was supposed to have survival gear and short-range weapons in it in case of emergency, but I guess he can do whatever with his stuff.)

“Hey, Brucie-Bear,” I tell him.   
“Tony,” he says, giving my an empathetic smile. 

I glance at Nat. “Um, Nat-”  
“I apologize, Tony,” Nat says, staring straight ahead. “I wronged you. I should not have kept secrets from you. I am sorry.”  
“You’re always going to keep secrets from me, Nat,” I say without heat. “It’s part of who you are, and I’m cool with that. If you have a secret you want to tell me, I’m willing to listen, but you’re allowed to keep them, as long as they aren’t a part of who I am. I like to know those things.”  
Natasha nods swiftly. “Yes, of course. You will.”

I look over at Steve. “You have one of your terrible apologies prepared? Or do you only do those when I’m in the middle of a panic attack.”  
“I say them when I think they are warranted,” Steve replies. “And one is here. I am sorry, Tony. You...deserve better, and I will try to be.”

(I don’t deserve better than Captain America.)

“Thanks, Steve,” I say. “But I’m going to need some time. I mean, I’m mostly okay, but…”  
“I understand,” Steve says. “It’s alright.”  
Nat nods silently. Clint and Bruce mostly just look awkward. 

We get back to the Tower in the next ten minutes via a company helicopter. When we land, Spark is sitting on the roof around fifteen feet from the front of the helipad and two inches from the armor which I sent ahead, looking straight at me from where she was typing on her laptop, probably taking notes on the armor. .

She walks up as soon as the helicopter lands, crossing her arms in front of her chest and popping one hip. “Why is Shay not with you?”

“I got there ten seconds too late,” I admit, stepping onto the concrete of the rooftop with a lot of help from Nat. I’m distinctly uncomfortable under the weight of Spark’s gaze and of my guilt. The bullet wound doesn’t help much in the way of my posture. “She collapsed when I got there. They got too her faster.”

Spark looks disbelieving. Her attitude and stance reminds me of Pepper, and I get a flash of tenderness toward Spark. “You were in a flying piece of metal armor that can go fast enough to exit Earth’s orbit, but some guy doing cardio beat you.”

“Well, I was shot, so,” I say, still clutching onto Nat. I try to have as much dignity as possible while I do it. 

Spark instantly stands up straight. “What?!” she pulls her purse off from her shoulder. “Let me see.”

She opens her bag while stepping very close. Her eyes lock on the blood that has just now started soaking into my shirt, hidden slightly by my suit jacket and the fact that Nat applied cotton pads and pressure in the helicopter. She takes some wicked looking scissors out of her bag (what is she, Mary Poppins?) and starts to cut downward from my collar. She pushes the cloth aside with one hand while fishing out medical supplies with the other. 

“I want to be an EMT,” she says to the questioning looks she’s getting. “Or some sort of doctor, any I can get, really, as long as it’s the actual treatment of patients.”  
She turns a critical eye to the bullet wound. “No exit wound, good for bleeding. I assume as a multi-billionaire, you’re up to date with your vaccines, so I’m not worried about tetanus, one less infection to be worried about. Unless this was a shrapnel bullet, which would have split in the body and been made worse by pressure, which was clearly applied, as blood flow is very minimal, this should be an easy removal process. In terms of the actual size of the bullet, you got pretty lucky, and the endtry site is small. Although, it probably has gunpowder and the like, hold on, I’ll wipe it down-”

She reaches into her bag and carefully wipes around the bullet wound. “If we transition to inside, I can perform the surgery, if you want to, to get the bullet out.”

I look up at her. A few years ago, I would have demanded a trained doctor. But since Peter, an engineering genius without a degree, I’ve started to have a little more faith in those without a degree. Or a driver's license.

“What would you do?” I ask. Always ask questions when in doubt is rule number one. 

“Cut an x-pattern centering around the bullet wound and use a pair of tweezers to take it out, at the barest bones. If you want, I can hook up several machines and make it really fast. And if you have a strong stomach, I can give you pain meds and you can watch me take it out.” She says this while she puts the wipes back in her bag. 

“I’d prefer not to have that experience, thanks,” I say. “How do you know so much about removing bullets?”  
Spark glances at me. Then her eyes flock to the Avengers. Then back to me. 

She has put on an easygoing smile. “I watched a lot of medical shows when I was younger. And then I got really serious. You know those medical encyclopedias that are sitting in the corner of libraries and getting dusty? Yeah, I read, like, five of those.” As she talks she gets some cotton pads from her bag. She gives them to Nat and Nat (painfully) presses them to my agitated shoulder. 

I know she’s lying (because what can living as a celebrity show you but how to tell and how to be a scumbag?). But I also know that the notification J just popped up in the corner of my tinted glasses notified me that everything Spark said was medically correct. She knows a fair bit, it seems. 

“So, basically, you’re the medical equivalent of Peter?” Clint asks. He probably noticed her lies too, as a spy, same with Nat, and is trying to shift the focus subtly while keeping up his clown-type persona. 

Spark smiles. “I would love to chat, but your bleeding is getting worse, Mr. Stark, and we should really do something about the bullet in your body.”

“I agree,” Nat says, hauling me forward by essentially picking me up and walking. I absolutely do not make an embarrassing squeaking sound when she does it. Then I gasp because right after the surprise is the pressure on the bullet wound, which, may I say, is not fun. 

Nat instantly places me back down. Her face has gone blank, probably go make up for a lot of shame and guilt she’s experiencing. Nat is good at that. 

I think about this to attempt to distract myself from the second heartbeat forming in my shoulder. I know my face has gone pale and that my face is contorted in pain, but oh well. 

Spark studies me, then glances back to the good Captain. 

“Mr. Rogers, would you please, very, very carefully and slowly, pick up Mr. Stark bridal style and carry him inside?”

I am already blushing, I know it. 

I give Steve the stink eye as he slowly, achingly slowly, puts his giant arms underneath my legs and my shoulders-this is not going to end well-and slowly, slowly, lifts me up. I barely realize that I’m gasping because my vision is swimming with the pain and that seems much more concerning.

“Sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry,” Steve repeats as he moves.  
Spark is running down a list of mediations with J to make sure I’m good to take them, from Advil to a mix of chemicals so intense I don’t understand it through the fire in my stupid, stupid shoulder.

When Steve is standing upright, I’m pressed against his stupidly muscular chest. I’m scared to raise my arms and agitate my shoulder to wrap my arms around his neck. But I’m also aware of the possibility of falling, so I loop my unhurt arm around for the false sense of security. 

My face is very, very red. I am also intimately aware of how I’m pressed against Steve right now. 

Spark leads, with J leading her to the med bay. After we get there, she kicks out Steve (who pouts), Clint (who says a stupid joke and leaves), and Bruce (who waves before leaving, looking exhausted). She almost kicks out Nat, but stops at the death glare.

“Fine, you’ve been helpful anyway. Can you finish cutting his shirt off? I have to sterilize the scalpel and set up the IV and pain meds.”

Nat takes the scissors gracefully and finishes ruining my very expensive shirt. I guess it will go with the slightly blood stained overcoat now. 

In my peripheral vision, Spark sets up an IV and checks what fluids are in the bag. She adds the pain meds J recommends through the computer and adding a tube that slowly lets a clear liquid dribble into the IV bag.

As she sees me looking, she smiles at me. “You’re dehydrated anyway, according to JARVIS. I don’t think the extra fluids will be a bad thing.”

I almost shrug and then have to stop myself. Instead, I nod. Nat eases me back onto the pillows gently, and I pout.   
“Why, Nat, if you wanted to see me in bed, you could have just asked,” I tell her with my teasing grin on.  
“Noted, Tony,” Nat says smoothly. “But I think I’ll stick to Laura and Clint for now.”  
“Ah, the good old farming lovebirds,” I sigh. “No trouble in paradise, I trust?” I can see Spark running a scalpel under running water with gloves on her hands.   
Nat has a gentle smile on. “Laura and the kids are doing well. Nathanial shared a preference for the name Natasha-”   
I gasp. When Nathaniel was still in Laura's belly, Nat had hoped strongly for a girl to be named after her. When Nat the Second came out a Nathaniel, she was disappointed. “You got your wish!”   
Nat smiles. “I did. We go to ballet lessons together, we’re a real power duo. Natasha looks amazing in a tutu.”  
“I bet she does,” I say, noting how the meds are starting to kick in. Or maybe the adrenaline has worn off and the numb feeling is actually how tired I am? Hard to tell. 

“We had a party to celebrate her first recital, you should have seen how happy she was,” Nat says, a soft look on her face. “She refused to take off her tutu and got frosting and chocolate sauce all over it.”  
I laugh. It hurts my shoulder, but the meds must be really kicking in because it’s more annoying than anything else. 

“He’s getting slightly out of it,” Spark notes. “He’ll be out in a few. Keep talking to him, I’ll prepare a needle.”  
“Sure,” Nat replies easily. “We repainted Natasha’s room, made a whole day of it. She looks to much happier with lilac walls and ballet posters, it’s amazing.”  
“You felt an emotion, a wonder,” I say, giggling slightly. It doesn’t even strike me how weird it is for me to giggle. “The great Black Widow, feeling a bit of good old serotonin.”  
“Shut it, Stark,” Nat says, laughing slightly. “You’ll ruin my reputation.”  
I gasp over-dramatically. “You have a reputation?”  
Nat smiles at me, that safe little smile she usually reserves for Clint when he’s yawning or telling her jokes or making her pancakes. “Yes, Tony, I happen to.”

I pass out while giggling. Nat’s smile is the last thing I see.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments and kudos are heavily loved! Thanks for reading!


	12. A Wild Shay Has Appeared

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tony’s surgery, a breakthrough with Shay, and Petal being a BAMF because I love them. Also, Nat is paranoid.
> 
> And!!! Fifty thousand words!!! Yay!!!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me: I’ve been really unproductive lately  
> Literally no one:  
> Nobody:  
> Absolutely no human in this earth:  
> Me: I’ll post a longer chapter than usual!

“That was adorable,” I say, setting the sterile needle next to the scalpel and tweezers I just cleaned. I turn back to make sure the heart rate monitor is working properly before hooking Mr. Stark up and turning the machine on. As I fetch some thread, I talk about what is about to happen.

“So I’m basically just going to do this as simply as possible,” I say, putting the black thread down on the tray. I close the cabinet with my foot. “X-pattern incision around the entrance wound, feel around with some tweezers, pull the bullet out, stitch it back up. He should be awake in about-”

I stop, getting a first good look at Tony’s chest. It’s littered with scars. Some look like the scars I can find on Brooke and Bryn, where their father put out lit cigarettes on their skin, just larger, as if done with something like a cigar. Some are just little things, as if he was hit with shrapnel or the broken glass of a thrown bottle. They huddle around the arc reactor, some of them clean and clearly surgical, some of them haphazard, probably coming from the explosion that gave him the arc reactor. Some of them are the now-too-familiar mark of a past bullet wound, and a notable one makes it look like he was stabbed. A few are old burn marks, faded slightly. The arc reactor sits in the middle of the mess, glowing, a beacon.

I force myself to act casual, like I did when Onyx used his binder for too many hours because he slept in it accidentally and broke two ribs and punctured his lung, when Ember called me in the middle of a shift to notify me that she had been stabbed, when Brooke first told me about her frankly horrendous father. I walk forward, wheeling the cart holding the supplies behind me, before stopping beside the bed. 

Natasha is looking at me closely, searching for a negative reaction. I simply nod at her and keep talking, barely able to remember my train of thought. “-yeah, he should wake up by tomorrow at the latest, but he’ll be fine to wake up tonight. He looks exhausted, so really, it’s a tossup. Maybe his body will try to forcefully catch up on sleep.”

Natasha nods silently. 

“I’ll keep the pain meds up when he first wakes up and then slowly lower them, I don’t want him to wake up feeling awful. Oh, can you grab cleanup supplies while I do this? I mean, if you want to babysit me, that’s fine, but I do need a way to clean this up.”

I take a needle in one hand and keep talking. “This is going to be quick, and his heartbeat has slowed by now, so I don’t think this will be that bloody. But I’m going to need something to wipe him off, so a clean towel or cloth, some sanitizing wipes. Scissors to cut the thread in the stitching. Oh, and put on gloves before doing anything.”

Natasha moves to put on gloves and fetch the stuff I need. I wait for her to deliver scissors and a soft, ultra-absorbent towel before starting. As she goes to get some disinfecting wipes, I make the first cut.

Two straight lines, as small as possible with a bullet hole in the center. As usual, the incisions are surprisingly easy to make. I work quickly so the blood doesn’t have time to well up much. 

I quickly have the tweezers in-hand. I feel around for the bullet with tiny movements before hitting the correct shape. Getting a grip on the wet, rounded object is difficult, but I have practice, and the metal clatters on the tray within forty-five seconds. I am arming myself with a pre-threaded needle, carefully and quickly stitching Mr. Stark back up. 

“Done, starting cleanup,” I announce as the needle clatters to the tray. I wipe down the area, making sure there’s no blood or chance of infection because I missed a spot. I bandage up with gauze and cotton pads the Widow thankfully remembered, tie the dressings just tight enough to put pressure but not too much, because that would cut off blood flow to the arm. By the time I turn around, the Black Widow is cleaning equipment and has thrown away the used thread. I make myself useful by wiping down the tray I used and stripping my gloves. And then, because gloves always make my hands sweaty, I wash my hands.

After all that, I check the IV bag-fine-make sure the needle is still in-it is-and check Mr. Stark’s breathing and heart rate-which are normal. 

“Thanks for the help,” I tell the Black Widow, who I just performed a surgery with, oh my God.

I keep myself together the best I can. I’ve met all the Avengers, oh God. What if they recognise me out of suit? What will I do? Will they report back to the government who I am? They work with the government, right?

“I am glad to,” Mrs. Widow (is there a better way to say that? I’m not being disrespectful to an Avenger, especially not her, a queen) replies, the words cutting through my internal meltdown. 

“Right,” I say, suddenly unsure what to do. “Um, I’ll just-uh, I was going to ask Mr. Stark something, but then obviously there were more important things, so-um, I’ll just let you guys do your thing, I guess-”

I move toward the door, but am stopped by an arm. 

“Who are you to Tony that you get private talks with him on a rooftop directly after a mission?” the Black Widow asks me. I start sweating; she has an interrogation face on, I know it without looking. “And why does Tony trust you enough to let you perform surgery on him if I’ve never met you?”

I stare at the door, because I really don't want to look at her face right now. (The Black Widow is scary.) “Um, ma’am, I’m not sure I’m allowed to tell-”  
“I have top clearance and almost definitely know Tony better than you do. Answer the questions before I do something Steve would disapprove of.” 

I stare at the door very, very, very hard.

“I’m Sophia Dillon,” I start. “Everyone calls me Spark, though. And I don’t know why Tony trusts me so much, but I can do it confidently, so I did.”

“And why do you know so much about bullet wounds? And why do you get a private chat with Tony after a mission? What’s so important?”

Technically, no one but JARVIS knew I was there. I climbed the building on one of the sides without windows and notified J that I wanted a personal update from Tony about Shay after taking my suit off. So, I’m not “allowed” a private audience, I just took one. (Jarvis didn’t argue, just told Pepper, who instructed me to eat and sleep in an intense Facetime session. She did not question how I got on the roof without going inside the building.)

Also, I know so much about bullet wounds because I have removed several bullets from my superhero friends who wouldn’t know the word “caution” if it slapped them. (And from a lot of watching medical documentaries and reading nerdy books, but I would never operate on just book knowledge.)

Two questions I can’t answer, great. Improvising, then.

“Uh, ma’am, I work here. In the computer engineering department. I code medical programs.” 

(And I have! I did that yesterday, albeit distractedly. I worked on the code and layout to my bandage. I have a design, and it automatically, in theory, seals the edges now! No germs!)

“Very few workers have the authority to see Tony, and none directly after a mission.”

Well, fudge. 

“Um…” I glance over at her. The Black Widow’s face is stony.

“JARVIS,” Natasha says slowly. “Run Protocol 17, Sophia “Spark” Dillon.”

A hologram pops up between us. I jump back. The text on the screen (thank God young me spent far too long learning to read backwards) is talking about how I work here, my relation to Mr. Stark, my usual health stats, and so on. 

“Uh,” I say, getting to the bottom with no mention of Shay. All there is are the words “the rest of this information is only available to Tony Stark, Sophia “Spark” Dillon, and Pepper Potts until further notice.”

The eyebrows of the Black Widow twitch as if under the ghost of the impression that they should be rising in shock. 

I stand awkwardly, hoping I’m not offending her somehow. Is my breathing too loud? It seems really loud. 

Her eyes look up to my sharply. I shrink back slightly. “Classified,” she says. “Interesting.” I nod, unsure if I should run or stay here and make sure Mr. Stark is okay until he wakes up.

“Um?” I say, “I guess?”

Natasha looks up at me seriously. She makes a motion with her hand, and the hologram disappears. 

“Protocol 17 ended,” J announces. 

“Is Protocol 17 like, a background check, or something?” I ask nervously.

J is the one to respond. “Provided that the initiator has the clearance, I give all the information I have collected on the individual protocol 17 is focusing on.”

“Right,” I say, hoping my forehead isn’t visibly sweaty. I feel like I’m about to be tortured for answers.

The Black Widow turns around and looks at Mr. Stark. Her eyes transition shockingly quickly from hard to soft. I watch her trace the lines of Mr. Stark’s body, pausing where the stitching is. 

I sit down on the spinny stool and organise my purse, which is pretty much a messenger bag at this point. When I grabbed stuff hurriedly earlier, everything got knocked out of place. Once I’m done with that, I pull out my math folder and start on my homework, glancing up every minute or so at Mr. Stark and making sure I’m never so absorbed that I wouldn’t notice if the heartbeat monitor picked up. 

The Black Widow just stands. She doesn’t sit, don't lean against the wall, I don’t think she even shifts her weight. She just stands there. After about five minutes of me doing homework, she takes out her phone and does something with it, maybe sending a text. She quickly puts it back in her pocket and goes back to staring at Mr. Stark.

I finish my statistics homework after around half an hour and move on to the worksheet I got from bio. I catch the eyes of the scariest redhead ever to exist as she tries to read my homework. 

I lick my lips and glance at Mr. Stark. No change. I go back to my work, my skin prickling with the weight of the gaze the Black Widow is giving me.

“You are a highschool student,” she says, void of all emotion.  
I look up. “Um, yeah.”  
She just looks at me. This is even worse than when she was staring at Mr. Stark and not moving, no matter how creepy that was. I go back to my work, adding ‘glance discreetly at the creepy woman to make sure she hasn’t pulled a knife’ to my rotation. 

“And why does a highschool student have a job here? There has only been one employee below college age in the history of the company, and he is a proven genius.”

My tongue is very dry. I lie all the time, why am I so nervous? Actually, I don’t lie to spies/assassins/superheroes all the time, so maybe it’s warranted. “I…”

Um, I hacked your friend’s AI? Please don’t kill me? I didn’t do anything bad to J and I’m friends with Mr. Stark now? I don’t like being murdered?

“I…” I stop. “JARVIS, is Mrs. Widow likely to kill me for saying this?”  
“It is doubtful that Ms. Romanov will kill anyone, currently.”  
“That was a hyperbole,” I mutter.  
“Well,” I say quickly, thinking I can’t lie, because she’s a spy who will know, and I can’t exactly run away because what if something goes wrong with Mr. Stark? “I needed information for this AI I was coding-oh, yeah, say hi, Izzy-”  
“Hello, Miss Romanov,” Iz greets from my laptop.  
“So, uh, I may or may not have hacked J. And I swear, I only looked, I didn’t change anything or hurt him-”  
“I can confirm,” J comments passively.  
“And I would never do that, because you know, life is life and I should respect every living thing-”  
“Technically, Miss Dillon, I am not alive, as I have no cells to produce ATP, which are the markers of life.”  
“J, you are alive in my book. Anyway, so I hacked Mr. Stark, and a few hours later, Mr. Stark texted me, which I honestly should have expected, Mr. Stark isn’t as stupid as the government, he would be able to tell. Anyway, so I hacked him, he texted me, said I was smart, and then he gave me a job and then he seemed to like me, mostly because Mrs. Potts went total Mom Mode on me-”

Mrs. Black Widow looks...shocked? What did I do?

“Uh…Yeah….” I say. 

She nods sharply. “Okay,” she says, like it’s a decision. And then she sits, leaning against the wall, and crosses her legs, which are spread out in front of her. She takes a handgun out of a mysterious place (I think she has a portal) and starts to take it apart and clean it.

“You can tell the others they can come in,” I say. “I’m going to text my dad.”

He Black Widow nods. “How old are you?” She says it conversationally, but I know she’s getting information out of me on purpose. 

“I turned sixteen, like, four weeks ago,” I say, writing my name on top of my sheet because I realised I didn’t before.

She does not respond. I glance up, and she is typing on her phone. She has a face similar to the one when Petal has had a particularly bad day and is trying to cut off her emotions, which are so strong they shine through. 

I discreetly touch the wall, looking to cure my curiosity. Assuming she’s using the internet, which I know for a fact runs through J, I can access whatever she’s doing. 

An echo of a spark, then more, and suddenly, my entire mind is scrolling through code and servers and videos and images and so, so much stuff. Kind of overwhelmed, I close my eyes-one less thing to take in-and focus. I narrow it down to what is on cell phones, then try to narrow it down to my area, then just look through.

I immiediatly move on when I see a naked woman-nope, no, don’t want to see that, my poor asexual eyeballs wish to be pure-and move fluidly through websites that I think are coming from people just working. A site that talks about sayings in French, probably someone Googling something they don’t know in a bathroom or something. Someone is emailing a photographer looking for an image to use on the SI website. 

And then. A text conversation.

Captain Grandpa  
Nat, is Tony okay?  
Me  
The surgery went fine, he’ll be up in a few hours  
Captain Grandpa  
Good.

Me  
Steve, she’s a highschool student  
Captain Grandpa  
What?  
Me  
The girl that was waiting on the helipad for Tony  
She’s in highschool  
Captain Grandpa  
So?  
Me  
She’s doing homework  
Wait, ‘so?’ You don’t think it’s suspicious that she was allowed to meet with Tony right after a mission?

Captain Grandpa  
I think it’s fine, Tony seems to trust her.

Huh. So that’s why they aren’t here yet, she hasn’t told them they can come in. I was expecting them to storm in immediately.

When I take my hand away from the wall-just the difference of side-leaning on the wall and sitting normally-and open my eyes, I get a rush of guilt. I shouldn’t have spied. What anyone does on their phone is their business. 

“Ma’am, a notification,” Izzy says. The Black Widow-Mrs. Widow?-looks up sharply at me, but I ignore her and turn to my laptop and yank it open, hoping for an update on Shay.

Instead, I get a passive-aggressive message that is apparently from JARVIS telling me not to mess with the circuitry.

“Sorry, J,” I say. “Won’t happen again.”  
“Apology accepted, Miss Dillon.”

When I glance at Mr. Stark, he remains the same, which is unsurprising. But Mrs. Widow is staring at me again. 

I look back at my laptop, my face warm. 

We spend the next four hours that way, mostly. Occasionally, Captain America (oh my God I’ve met Captain America) will come in with one of the other members of the Avengers and they’ll be sentimental for a bit. I put my earbuds in when they do, not wanting to eavesdrop and figuring they’ll alert me if something happens with Mr. Stark. I text Pepper to see if anything is happening with that prosthetics company that is apparently HYDRA, and she informs me that they have been pushing the meeting back more and more. It’s scheduled for tomorrow, but they’ll probably change that. Then I sit and draft up ideas for super tech we might need.

Then Mr. Stark wakes up when it’s just me and the Black Widow. She’s immediately on her feet, rushing to Mr. Stark’s side as he blearily looks around. I quickly check his stats on the computer, then move to his bedside when I see that they’re fine. 

I run Mr. Stark through the tests for a concussion-a negative-and make sure all the needles are still in place-they are. I give a smile to Mr. Stark and then back up so he and Mrs. Widow can have a semblance of privacy. 

I sit on my spinny stool and try not to look like I’m eavesdropping while also checking on Mr. Stark. Pulse is slightly slow, but that can be explained by drowsiness and drugs, and it’s within normal. The IV seems to have enough pain meds, as he hasn’t screamed or cried yet.

I watch as Mr. Stark paws at his chest, and as Mrs. Widow peels the covers back to show Mr. Stark the bandaging. During this, I see that he hasn’t bled through it, and it’s still secure. Probably should change them in a few hours anyway. 

I look away then. There’s nothing useful I can get from staring at Mr. Stark’s scarred chest. I’ve seen scars before-lord knows I have a few of my own to ogle at-and I’ve seen tech the glows blue before, although not that specific arc reactor. Or any arc reactor, really.

This gets me thinking about my own scars. The one on my left side where I was skimmed with a bullet. The one below my left breast where I was stabbed, hitting a rib and breaking it, but with no worse damage. That time I was slammed against a wall that had a sharp bit sticking out and I was stabbed through the back, right above my right hip. That one strip down my thigh from when I got hit with some weird blast from villain of the week. That one time a talking dragon bit me left teeth marks up and down my right thigh. Then I skim through the many broken bones, bruises, and scrapes, even healed a little faster by my accelerate healing. 

And then I think about how many scars and injuries Shay may have gone through.

That snaps me out of it. By the time I look back towards the bed, Mr. Stark is attempting to sit up, with Mrs. Black Widow calmly holding him in place. I stand up and rush over.  
“Mr. Stark! Do not, you’re going to ruin the bandaging, lie down! And you probably don’t even have enough coordination right now to sit up or stand! You are high on pain meds, dude! Chill!”  
I press Mr. Stark down into the bed as he huffs. “Sweetheart-”  
“Tony, no flirting with minors,” Mrs. Widow says.  
“I’m fine! I mean, I’ve taken bullets before! This is nothing! It didn’t even hit an organ!”  
“I will call Peter if you don’t shut it,” Mrs. Widow threats.  
Mr. Stark scoffs as I physically press him downwards and hope I’m not going to have to shock his neurological system into being tired by replicating the pattern ‘tired’ is for his body with my electrical signals.

Mrs. Widow takes out her phone. As Mr. Stark’s eyes widen, she presses a button like she’s proving a point (and she is, she totally could have asked J to call Peter), and the first ring starts.

I giggle into my hand, which I’m using to stifle my laughter. Mr. Stark glares at me. “Traitor,” he mutters as Peter picks up.  
“Mama spider!” Peter says excitedly.  
“Hello, baby spider,” Mrs. Widow says in a really soft voice. Then she gets more serious. “Tony has been shot and refuses to relax after he just woke up from surgery.”  
“Mr. Stark!” Peter says. Mr. Stark looks like he would rather be dead. “You said you were going to be careful!”  
“Sorry, Underoos,” Mr. Stark says. I make a mental note to never tell anyone about what is going on in this room. “I-It was important.”  
“Nothing is more important than you, Mr. Stark!” Peter says. Mr. Stark has doubtful eyes, and I make a mental note to have J download some therapy tactics. “You can’t just throw yourself into danger!”  
“Really, kiddo, like you don’t?” Mr. Stark says with a chuckle.

I do not want to know what that means.

“Mr. Stark!” Peter says. “If you don’t get in bed and be relatively still, I am going to skip school tomorrow to give you puppy eyes the entire day to make you stay!”  
Mr. Stark groans and relaxes against the pillows. Then his eyes widen when he looks at my face.

He bolts upright, and I lunge forward to force him down. Mr. Stark fights me, much more determined than he was earlier. “Shay!” he says.  
“What?” Peter says over the phone.  
Mrs. Widow asks the same question with her eyes.  
“Did you see her?” I ask. And, with a sick twist of my gut, I hesitantly say, “Did she shoot you?”  
“They got Shay!” Mr. Stark cries. 

My eyes widen. I completely forget when he worried me that way. (I usually don’t respond well when people I like get shot, call it a flaw of mine, I tend to try and help them over anything else.) I fly over to my laptop, yanking it open and demanding to know where and when as I hack into the system of street cameras in NY. Mr. Stark says a street name, Izzy automatically pulls up every camera around that street, and I watch in horror as Shay is attacked, drugged, how she runs, and the way she is roughly grabbed from behind and dragged, unmoving, unconscious, to a helicopter. I watch as Mr. Stark shoots at the helicopter, I watch as he is shot, I watch as he has a panic attack-Mr. Stark looks away from me when I do, grimacing-and then I shut the feed.

My hands fly across the keyboard, trying to find a video feed of where the helicopter went. I only have a vague direction by the end of my ideas.

My eyes narrow. I lean against the wall subtly and send an apology to J as I start.

Then I hack Pepper Potts’ email.

As I giggle kind of hysterically (Pepper! Potts’! Email!), I finish my apology and send it to J. Then I do some random typing on my computer to distract Mr. Stark and Mrs. Widow as I get into J, then into the internet, then the emails sent, then I work through seventeen layers of security before getting to my prize.

I send an email for Ms. Potts (I’m an awful person, oh my God) to the company making prosthetics. I ask them for a phone number I can call, or a website, just some way to get in touch that is both inconspicuous and a way to trace them. 

“Miss Dillon, your apology is accepted, this seems to be an emergency situation warranting your actions,” J says. Mr. Stark and Mrs. Widow both narrow their eyes at me. 

They respond within seconds, which is good, because I can only do this for so long before the way my skin is slightly charred from electricity becomes apparent, even with my accelerated healing. 

My hand is only aching slightly, but my back is starting to protest. (Over the years, I have discovered that I can tolerate more shocks than normal, but my body is far from invincible.) 

The email talks about a whole lot about nothing and then a little about how I can contact them at such and such phone number. I lunge for my phone, Izzy brings up the number, and I’m setting up the tracing program as my phone calls theirs. 

“Call tracing program prepared,” Izzy announces.  
“Great,” I say, “I’ll handle the talking to the kidnappers.”  
“That would be nice,” Izzy answers, “But we don’t know if they specifically kidnapped Shay. It might have been-”  
“Someone else from their group. Now be quiet, they might pick up.”

They pick up a second later.

“Hello?”  
“Hello,” I say, trying to come up with something to say that won’t have them hang up or get me a widow bite. “I’m a representative of Stark Industries, and I want to talk to you about a few things.”  
Izzy gives me a notification that they have a vague location that the caller is far from the actual company HQ.  
“Yes?” the voice says, a man, slightly annoyed. There’s some muffled bumping and shouting in the background.  
“I first wanted to confirm specifics about tomorrow's meeting,” I say, trying to come up with ideas to keep him talking.  
“Actually, we’re pretty understaffed tomorrow, so we’re not going to be able to send a representative for the meeting.”  
“Of course,” I say in my placating voice perfected over several years working minimum wage jobs. “Then I want to confirm a meeting time for when you’re not overloaded or understaffed. We can send a representative for the next week. Do any of those times work for you?”  
The map Iz has pulled up of their location gets smaller. I fish for ideas in my frantic brain.  
“Can’t say right now,” the man says gruffly. “You done?” I hear muffled screaming, which I ignore, but Mrs. Widow’s eyes narrow even more.  
“Not quite, sir,” I say. “Um, I wanted to confirm the topic of the meeting. Stark Industries is looking at expanding its prosthetics output, and we wanted to speak with experts on the subject.”  
Like these guys are experts. I glanced at their awful website for two seconds and saw that is was both pretty shady and terrible quality.  
“Right,” the man says. Iz zooms in more on the map, showing somewhere way out of the city, almost out of the state. I can see the state line in the corner of the screen.  
“Yes,” I say. “Uh, if you could bring a summary of the functions of prosthetics-or, at least, your specialty in the arm-and maybe a model, that would be fantastic. Can that be arranged?”  
“Maybe,” the guy says.  
“Alright, um, sir, I need to know what position in the company you occupy.”  
I absolutely do not, but it might be fun to see him flounder for something.  
“Uhhhh,” the guy says, “I’m-I’m a secretary.”  
There’s muffled laughter, a thump, some scraping sounds.  
“Okay, thank you,” I say, and then quickly, “Er, do you have any blueprints of your product you can send me?”  
“No.”  
“That’s okay, do you have any recommendations from customers, maybe some positive reviews?” I ask, reaching to the bottom of my stall-for-time barrel.  
A pause. “No.”  
“Right,” I say. I almost say something else, who knows what, but then a notification pops up on the screen of my laptop and Izzy zooms into one spot, labeled to be the warehouse for a Russian company dealing in what, at a glance to their website and help from my copious experience as a superhero, looks like crime, not just the chairs they claim to sell. “Um, that’s all the information I need at this time. Please contact Stark Industries if you have any questions.”  
I end the call, practically throwing my phone into my bag and focusing on the location. “They look to still be in the state,” I say. “Apparently, HYDRA sells chairs.”  
Mr. Stark is looking at a hologram, spinning the diagram of Shay’s brain scan around and around. “Where?” he says in the scariest voice I have ever heard, including that one time a talking dragon came to life and decided NYC looked tasty. 

I have Izzy text him the address, I absently tell J to keep the address under wraps (we don’t want the police barging in and handling it badly or freaking Shay out), already hacking into whatever I can find. I get twenty-three phones, one laptop, and seven computers. The laptop belongs to Christian Jones, a recent highschool graduate, who I report to JARVIS. The phones I let Izzy handle, as after looking through the first one, I find the only useful thing are a few numbers and text conversations. 

The computers are the scary parts.

I have to hack through several terrible layers of security, but once I’m past that, I can see some barf-worthy stuff, including a currently-running program called ‘making a project rebirth subject submit’. The next one has ‘Frances’ work in creating mutants from adult humans’. I consider throwing every HYDRA agent directly into the sun by the time I’m done with all of the seven computers. 

I close my laptop, thinking hard. Obviously, I can’t just leave this to the Avengers. Then how do I get in-suit (where I’m less likely to be shot than in casual clothes, Petal was smart enough to add Kevlar and Ember upgraded on it) without giving my identity away?

I could run off, but then Mr. Stark will get suspicious-I’m heavily invested in Shay, why would I run off as soon as we have a hint? (Even with the low chance that this is where they’re hiding Shay, normal-version-of-me would want to be here.)

There’s the option of just revealing myself, but the Avengers seem to be a government thing, and I do not want some old white dude calling the shots when it comes to my patrols or fights. And I would give away the rest of my friends, and that isn’t something I’m doing without full approval. 

I could ask Bryn downstairs to do his best to imitate me, they are pretty good at coding. Not as good as me, but an option. But would they want to fight too?

No, best not to get them involved. They don’t know Shay and we’re going up against some dangerous people. And Bryn might see some child abuse and have a flashback to their father, who, scientifically speaking, is the worst. 

I grab my phone, texting Bryn to pretty please call me with some emergency in forty five seconds. 

I put my phone down, and turn to Mr. Stark and say, “Well, they’re close enough that we can get there pretty soon, but it’s already been several hours since they got Shay, so she could already have a lot of damage-“

My phone rings. I put on a show of huffing and picking it up, very well rehearsed in my time of needing to escape and be a superhero. I put it on speaker. 

Bryn makes a groaning sound that I can tell they’re replicating from the times they’ve gotten hurt. “Uh, Spark, you know how my neighborhood is a kind of awful area that doesn’t receive non binary Mexican American teens well?”  
I fake my Mom Friend Mode, sitting up straight and already reaching for my purse/emergency medical bag/messenger bag. “How bad are you hurt and where are you?” I demand, throwing a look at Mr. Stark that says I need to go. He nods and Mrs. Widow waves me away. 

I open the door and practically sprint out, making up questions to ask Bryn until I’m a block away from the tower. Bryn answers remarkably well, apparently they can make up a good story in less than a minute.

“Thanks, Bryn,” I say, slowing to a jog as I look for someplace to change into my super suit. 

“Hey, no prob, but I have to get back to work,” Bryn answers. “What did you need to get out of?”  
“I need to get my super suit on, something’s going on,” I say. “I think I can handle it, but if you let the others know, that would be great. See if they’re free and ready to collect some serious bruises, I’ll text them the spot. Also ask if they have a way to get to the edge of the state.”

“What’s so important on the edge of the state?” Bryn asks. 

“Kidnapping of a friend. I’ll be back soon, ask Ray to set up for some serious injuries.”  
“I’ll text, good luck,” Bryn says, hanging up. 

I sprint again, having seen an abandoned shop front. I rip some stuff away from the entrance, toss a twenty to the homeless guy watching me do this, and scramble inside. 

The inside makes it look like the usual shop, of dark, dusty, and dirty. I ignore it all, quickly donning my suit. Then I find my way onto the roof, not wanting to make it obvious the homeless guy who I am, and take off. 

“Izzy, voice modifier on, please,” I say, running through an alleyway. When I speak again, my voice is lower, and with a different rumble to it. A little more “I’m walking here” than I usually am. It sounds completely natural, and it’s almost familiar with my time using the fake voice. If anyone traced it, it’s not coming back to me unless I get some serious throat problems and speech lessons from someone with a seriously thick Brooklyn accent. 

I take a turn, heading away from Avengers Tower and hoping they haven’t left to try to rescue Shay yet. 

Petal asked Ember and Bryn for a bike a while back that she could use in civilian mode and then somehow change to a more appropriate vehicle for a superhero. The end result was a motorcycle that could transition from black, green, pink, with studs of gold to a bike that has flowers painted all over it, blooming majestically. Ember is proud to have made it and I’m proud to have coded the thing. (Star has a bike that’s just for hero work and it’s simply purple accents and a night sky, much less fancy. The benefit is the fact it can fly, assuming you only have one passenger.)

Maybe if I grovel enough, Petal will let me use it. Star is too far away and Petal is better for being covert. It also has a heck of a lot more speed to it, because there’s no fancy make-it-fly mumbo jumbo hiding in it. 

I burst into Petal’s apartment with no small amount of desperation. Petal looks up from her workroom (it was supposed to be a living room but Petal doesn’t have a ton of space and likes working more than any couch) and raises an eyebrow dramatically. 

I see the bracelet through the sewing machine currently being forced to make a suit for some trans dude. It’s a female day. 

Petal stands when she sees my face. “Somethings wrong, spill the tea,” she says, already grabbing her shit from a pile of various clothes in the corner. 

“I need to get to the edge of the state as fast as possible so my kidnapped friend doesn’t die because she was tortured by some Nazis.”

Petal stops for a second and just looks it me while she’s halfway through wiggling into the suit that is made up of various pinks, greens, and a few highlights of gold making up flowers and a vague face. 

She clearly was not expecting that. 

“I need to use your bike because it’s the fastest way I can get there.” 

Petal gets into motion, finishing throwing on her shit and grabbing a bag shaped like-surprise-a bunch of flowers. This time, it’s violets and lilacs with tiny pink buds lining it. It’s still slightly singed from that time Ember accidentally set it on fire. 

It has a handgun for extreme emergencies only, bullets, collection kits for when we need science samples for some investigation-Bryn has gotten very good at those-and Petal’s emergency makeup kit for when she’s changing back to civilian mode and needs to look normal. Among other things, those are just the things I have gotten the privilege of seeing. 

Petal looks up at me, grabbing her keys with a determined smile. The last time I saw that smile, which is honestly more of a let’s-go-almost-die smirk, Petal was going off for their first patrol. “I drive.”


	13. Dodging trauma and superheroes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shay wakes up and gets a little revenge. Tony meets some of the OCs. Spark guesses wrong but tries to be helpful.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little shorter than usual, sorry. 
> 
> Triggers  
> Panic attacks  
> Torture (non graphic, tried my best to make it that way)  
> Casual violence  
> Blood  
> Cursing  
> Flashbacks

I wake up. I don’t open my eyes due to years of conditioning, but I don’t need sight to know where I am. 

Cold metal under me, slightly warmed. I’ve been here for less than half an hour, as my body heat hasn’t warmed it up. Straps that are too-tight digging into my skin at my neck, my chest, my stomach, my elbows, my shoulders, my thighs, my knees, and my ankles. A muzzle over my entire lower face, heavy and suffocating. 

And that’s just what my touch is telling me. 

There’s the smell of blood and arrogance. The fear and unease deep inside me. The humming of fear you can’t sense with anything but deep intuition that this place is full of danger. The sound of faint gunfire, screaming, of laughter from the mouths of killers. The pain that has settled in almost every crevice of my body, without the help of the additional bruises I have undoubtedly gotten. I’m surprised at the lack of ache between my thighs, (a time waking up exactly like this but covered in bruises and with two men leering at me as they zip themselves up and the pain settles in me, burrowing inside until I am nothing but fear and pain and rage that never ends but is always erased) but I’m not surprised at the way my ribs are already bruised. 

And they haven’t even started yet. 

I open my eyes, giving the world my best blank glare. 

A concrete ceiling. The edges of cinder block walls painted white that have an abstract painting in blood. The top edge of a computer, currently dark. 

I know from the pattern to the bloodstains that I have not gone far. Good, I’ll be back by tomorrow, barring incidents.

I press against my restraints. I know I wouldn’t usually be able to break them, but usually, I’m running on far less sleep, food, and rage. 

The answer to ‘is rage enough to break restraints made to take the full strength of a super Soldier’ is no. Pity, I’ll have to kill a few more people on my way back. 

I don’t move my head when the door opens. I don’t need to see the person. 

Heavy footsteps, military grade boots. Male, judging by the weight and pattern to the steps. All arrogance and toxicity. 

I imagine ripping his throat out in order to keep my hands still. 

(Be weak, they like weak.)

“Your longest getaway,” the man comments absently. I vaguely wonder when else I’ve escaped and feel pride for past-me. “Congratulations.”

I do not answer. I wouldn’t have even if there wasn’t a muzzle on my face. 

The man slaps me. But with the muzzle, he only hits half of my face and he hisses when he draws away. Idiot. I hope he broke every bone in his hand. 

The man curses as he wheels the metal table out of the room. I concentrate on knowing where I and the exits are. 

(Left, twenty feet, right, forty five feet, right, fifteen feet, doorway, fifteen feet, left, seventy feet, doorway to torture room.)

Sigh. 

Five men are shuffling around in the room, as well as one woman. They are surrounded by various weapons, and in the back of the room, I know, is a cryo chamber. 

Welcome to punishment, me. The same old dance. 

I see the estimated next two hours watching the events through a series of fractured snapshots my mind managed to get it together enough to take. 

The muzzle removed, my head thrust in a bucket of ice water, my lungs burning and my mind doing a slow descent to madness. 

A hot knife, stabbing and castrating in the same instant, as my mind shuts itself down save for the tiny box I lock my sanity in, along with all the memories, the little gifts I’ve scavenged from my broken radio of a head. 

Slowly burning the skin left, a hot rod running up and down, up and down. A flash of boiling water spilling onto me, of blisters boiling up.

The last part is always the worst. 

Ice, forced on me until it burns, until I am deemed weak and tortured enough to be sent into cryo, and, once I wake up, the chair, to wipe all humanity that I may have achieved away. 

The ice was the tipping point. I suddenly come back to myself, instead of just watching through fractured images. 

My limbs fill with rage, almost ignoring the pain, the anger supplied by memories rushing through me. (Forced in the cryo chamber, blue lips, frosty breath, freezing lungs that seize, sneering faces through frosted glass-)  
(Sneering faces from behind chain link fences, standing in line staring at the German man shooting the child slightly out of line, smoke pouring out of what the whispers call the gas chambers, the smell of burning bodies that embeds itself everywhere, the pale face of my brother as he dies right next to me, haggard coughing, counting my ribs, sneering at guards behind their backs, stealing a gun-)  
(Being shot, grabbed from behind, thrown onto a medical bed that they use for the dying, a needle pressed into my bony and fighting arm, nausea, pain, the number on my arm-)  
The number on my arm, the think that was my name for years. 13786. 

One of the men is yelling as I break my bindings, almost blinded by tears. 

“Rifle! Longing! Shattered! Nest! Rebirth! One! Nine! Twenty-three! Frozen! Return! Needle!”

As the man finishes the code words, the trigger to so many unhappy endings, I stare at him. Unable to move. 

And then I can. “Bastard,” I snarl, lunging at him. 

Everyone in the room is dead in two minutes. 

I walk out covered in my own blood and a little of theirs, taking the muzzle off as I go. I was going more for speed than revenge, so it was pretty quick, but I did get a few extra broken bones and groin kicks in then absolutely necessary.

I explore the base for the first time as a free woman. Rage filled, ready to kill, but free. I do it cautiously, slowly, listening for movement or voices. 

This is not the base where I might find other torn apart souls that I would have to guard like a dragon her hoard. This is an emergency base, a bolt hole you go to in case of serious injury or immediate need of reprogramming. Therefore, there are barely guards and little to find. 

What I do discover is boring; an armory I take some weapons and more practical clothes from, the conditioning room with the chair and two doctors I quickly render unconscious, some new recruits that go down comically easily, a room with medical supplies inside, a closet consisting entirely of cages and chains that are all empty, and some extra blood stains. 

I am suspicious. 

No bolt hole is ever this quiet. What’s so fascinating going on somewhere else that leaves this place deserted? 

The last room I get to is larger than the others. There are more bloodstains here, some dents in the walls and floor and even the ceiling from hard impacts, weapons lining the room. 

A training room. 

(James charging at me, apologies in his eyes as he breaks my arm-)  
(Cackling laughter as a knife plunged into me-)  
(Surrounded, no way to win, blows landing hard-)  
(A man in military uniform standing over me, taller than my twelve year old body by several feet, sneering, a gun in-hand-)  
(Pinned down by a man, hand over my mouth until I can’t breathe, taking off the stupid jumpsuit they forced me to wear-)  
(A man giving me the tattoo of numbers on my arm, not caring for my gritted teeth or tears-)  
(Blake standing in front of me, shielding me from whatever hell we just were forced into-)  
(The sound of Blake yelling as we’re dragged out of the boarding school in the dead of night, the feeling of my foot in Gestapo gut-)  
(“Stupid little-“)  
(“Subhuman-“)  
I come back to myself vaguely after a while. But I just stare at the room, unable to move, almost processing the fact that I’m now on the floor. 

The dark feelings eventually drown me again. 

(Blood flying from my nose, the pain lancing through me-)  
(Confusion, where am-)  
(I stand, fists loose at sides, as I face a man pointing a gun to my forehead-)  
(A gun shakily Aimee at my gut ad I calmly break the man’s hand, the gun hitting the floor with a-)  
(A man’s hand snaps against the wall, a Gestapo officer leering at the man with the star on his coat-)  
(The night doesn’t hide the sound of the banned books burning, it doesn’t hide the jeers as the woman’s shop is ransacked, it doesn’t hide-)

Rinse and repeat. 

(The smell of disinfectant and blood-)  
(Blood staining the floor, children’s cries filling the room-)

Rinse. 

(Nat’s little hair, red as blood, flying back with the force of a slap I wish I could stop-)  
(Bucky screaming on the floor, tears-)

And. 

(Pain, burning pain, lurching away-)  
(Nausea, the taste of barf-)  
(A woman yelling at me in Russian, gun waving, safety off and loaded-)

Repeat. 

(“Rifle, longing-“)  
(The feeling of being completely out of control, only able to watch as my small fourteen year old hands committed murder-)

“What-oh…”

(Throwing everything I have against the wall the chair always rebuilds-)  
(The sharp pain of failure, the agony of guilt-)  
(Picking a bullet out of my own thigh-)

“Shay? Shay, I need you to listen…”

(“I’m not scared of you,” I spit. “You should be-“)  
(The screaming of the child they sent me to kill-)  
(Watching the girl slump over with the chanide in her gut-)

“Uh, I only have a few minutes until Mr. Stark gets here…”

(One of the mind doctors leaning close to me, making notes as blood-)  
(James screaming that I don’t deserve this life, why would-)

“...talking, try to focus on it? I know that’s probably going to seem really hard…”

(The fear in Blake’s eyes-)  
(Counting ribs and razor wire curls-)

“She’s spiraling.”  
“Petal, not helping.”

(A needle filled with liquids that glow, why do they-)  
(Chains attached to the metal bedpost creaking as-)

“Anyway, I’m Spark, remember me? Sorry I freaked you out that one time…”

(Mama’s stuck in bed again-)  
(A gun pointed at Blake, fear-)

“...this is Petal, she-“  
“We’ve met, she knows me.”  
“What?”

(A woman pinning me down, lust practically dripping off her-)  
(Bruises littering-)

“Tell you later, keep claiming her down.”  
“Okay, um, yeah, she’s a girl today-“  
CLANK!

(Clang, clang, James screaming as the arm is attached-)

“Holy-“  
“Mr. Stark’s here, he startled Shay-“  
“I gathered, masks on-“

(Masks covering the face of my handler, but the likeness to Blake’s face-)  
(Muzzle, strapped too tight-)

Thump-whir-thump-whir-thump-

(Thump, a body hits the ground-)

“Mr. Stark, while I respect you for your actions as of late, you know, turning your life around and all, if you don’t stop making so much noise, I’m going to make you.”

(“Be quiet, girl, or I’ll make you shut it-“)

Clank. Whir. “What?”

“You’re freaking out someone in the middle of a panic attack,” the person hisses. “Stop.”

(“Stop,” Nat says, cold as concrete, aiming a gun at my attacker’s-)

“Who-What-Shay!”

(“Blake, what's going on?” I ask, looking at the Gestapo man who is-)

Clink clink clink thunk. 

(The click click click click of machine gun firing, deafening-)

“Dude!”  
“Mr. Stark, please-“  
“Hey, Shay, sorry if I made it worse.”

(-in hell? Worse, so much-)

“And I think I might have made it worse when I first met you, so I’m sorry for that too.”

(Shot, he said he was sorry? Not like it matters, I-)

A sigh I barely register but grasp onto anyway, anything to get away from my own mind. “I don’t know what made you freak, honestly, but I’ll try to avoid it when I figure it out.”

(“Ignore her, she’s just a little freak-“)

I slowly become aware of the warmth of tears streaming down my face. The raggedness of my lungs, already automatically going back to a regular speed even though I still feel so, so out of control. 

I’m crying silently. For some reason, I’m not surprised by this. (Don’t draw attention, stupid and sad girls don’t get-)

I look up sharply. I see two unfamiliar people dressed nonsensically in skin tight suits and one in what I assume is a casual three piece suit. 

I roll away and fluidly move to my feet, knives already in both hands. It wasn’t even a conscious thing, I just see them and automatically move away. 

My eyes take in the first two unknowns first, scanning for danger. 

My eyes catch on their bodies, registering their similarity to those of people I’ve seen before. Both are carrying hidden weapons, or something other than spandex, at least, and both aren’t pulling out knives in kind to mine. 

Then my eyes snap to the man, the other two passing enough that I want to take him in. 

And I freeze completely. No breath, no subtly changing my position, nothing. 

Tony Stark. 

“I’m not going to a mind doctor,” I say, and the words in the air are cutting but the ones in my head are terrified. 

(I don’t want-no-)

“Oh,” one of the suits say. The one dressed in ridiculous amounts of pink and green and looks kind of like a bunch of flowers. “Did-um, the mind doctors here, did they-um, did they hurt you?”

And that makes something click in Mr. Stark, and his eyes widen, and I startle with the memories. 

(James, tense, watches me, waiting for the scars on my forehead to show what they are, really-)  
(-anesthesia isn’t strong enough, not for me, so they just strap me to a table-)  
(A scalpel cutting into my forehead, skin peeled back-)  
(Blood, so much-)

The second one of the suits, the one dressed in gold and silver, the gold like lightning brought the whole shebang, makes a soft sound that sounds so, so sad. 

(A soft sound, a hurt sound, coming from Blake-)

“Shay, I’m sorry,” Spark says. “But-well-oh my God, if you’re like the captain, and Captain Rogers is from the twenties or whatever-oh, Shay, are you thinking of asylums?”

I look between the three of them. What does that sentence mean? 

“Shay, asylums don’t exist anymore.”

(My mother, back from the madhouse, shaking and withdrawn, sometimes screaming, sometimes silent, sometimes-)

I back up slowly. There’s a door behind me, if I do this inconspicuously enough, I can just sprint to it, they’ll never be able to catch me. 

“Um, what else was harmful about physiatrists in the past? Uh, no one’s going to exile you or anything? We honestly, honestly, just want to help. I swear.”

I stare at the girl. I’m trying to place her, and I think I have something, just based off her body, but the voice is different. I would need to see her walk to make sure. 

Also, what is she talking about? 

I back up in the slow way, not even lifting my feet, just slowly scooting backwards. 

“I think every part of history was pretty bad for the mentally ill,” the second person comments, their hands slowly raising. I flinch back, expecting a hit, but getting nothing. “Sorry,” the person dressed as a flower says. They are also familiar, but their voice is also different. 

I continue moving back so, so slowly. It’s making me want to rip my own skin off with frustration. And the need to bolt. 

“Shay, do you remember when you were born?”

(Watching my mother struggle through forms, my name at the top of all of them, trying to figure out how to enroll me into a boarding school in the best way, I glance over them, see my name, but a fake one-Shay Alexandria Laurens-and my DOB-the thirteenth of January, 1923-and my-)

Pain in my skull-apparently that’s a thing again-and nausea in my throat. 

I stare. The man-Mr. Stark. “C’mon, kid,” he says gently. “It’s okay.”

(“C’mon, kid,” Mr. Stark says, “My office.” His sneer-)  
(The door shuts harshly behind me, I know what’s coming-)  
(“Mr. Stark,” I say, “Please, stop, don’t-no-”)  
(The twist of a mouth, the feeling of a mustache against my cheek as he whispers to me-)  
(“No one can hear you, girl, so scream.”)  
(“Please, no-” I choke, twisting back-)  
(Screaming thoughts; remember your training, don’t kill him, you’re a scared maid, don’t kill him, the mission, you need information, do not kill him, keep your muscles weak, don’t-)  
(The rip of clothing, the cold floor of the office, the weight of him on top of me-)  
(Tears, not faked-)  
(Screams, not faked-)

I stumble back, eyes wide, barely aware again. “Mr. Stark,” I slur, “No, please-”  
“What?” he asks. “Shay?”

(He pushes me to the floor-)  
“No, please-don’t-want-”  
(He puts one hand over my mouth, and it didn’t suffocate me, I had to remember to breathe heavily-)  
My chest is being crushed inwards, I can’t breathe. “Mr. Stark, no, Howard, please, sir-” A choked gasp inwards.  
Mr. Stark’s face in reality is scrunched, then goes pale. “Oh, God, no, please, Dad, I swear,” he whispers. I barely understand that he’s speaking, let alone understand the words. “Not her,” he whispers, “A child?”

(Hands on my skin-)  
(The smell of whiskey, sharpened in panic and my enhanced nose-)

“Shay,” Mr. Stark in real life says softly, “Howard isn’t here. He’s dead. You’re okay.”  
“What’s going on?” the silver-and-yellow suit asks. They raise a hand, but I flinch back.

“No,” I say, “Nonononono-”

(His breath sickeningly hot in my face, overwhelmingly full of alcohol-)  
(The trickle between my legs, the stream of pink and red and white joining the tears on my face-)

I hit the floor again, crouching, legs together, hands over my face, arms covering my ears and the rest of my head, as compact as possible.

“Please tell me your father wasn’t a pedophile,” one of the suits says, the voice of the pink one. “Because I know what having a flashback to rape looks like and this is it.”

“I hate my father,” says the man in a growl. 

I flinch when there’s running footsteps in the hall behind me, sure Howard is about to come through the door. I curl up tighter. 

(The slam of a door-)  
(The fear in my gut-)  
(The pain-)

A door slams open, and I flinch so hard I fall over.

(Howard slamming the door behind us-)  
(Drawing me close-)  
(Cigars on the desk, next to the expensive whiskey-)

“Woah!”  
“Wave! Shhh!”

I stand suddenly, knives slipping back into my hands like old friends, scanning quickly.

(Danger, don’t be weak, fight, stand, move-)

A wave of fear and desperation.

And then I see the newbie, and for some reason, seeing them-her-walk towards me, I’m a little bit more calm.

I sob.

“Woah, Shay, you’re okay,” Brooke says, her voice unchanged.

I don’t understand. Why is everyone here just to watch me break, why their voices are different, what year it is, what’s changed, why do they care, why does she make me feel a little less like a hurricane that is slowly destroying itself, why everyone is dressed like a maniac in this room (myself included, probably). 

Understanding is the Raven’s most powerful sense. It’s super-human, the knowledge I constantly have-of my surroundings, of every person I meet, of everything I can possibly know. Maybe that’s why not knowing myself is so awful, maybe that’s why not knowing what’s going on around me is worse than every crime committed against me by them. 

And my reaction is always violence. It’s never been crying, it’s never been allowed. So why does she make me feel okay enough to cry? (Violence has never been the Raven’s greatest weapon, just my greatest offense, my knee jerk reminder. Acting is my greatest skill, and it’s the one first-placer I can’t blame on an ugly octopus.)

(Mama-)

And then I’m on the floor, a lot more coherent and showing a lot more of my broken parts. I’m so tired. 

A hand touches me, and I don’t flinch because I tracked Brooke’s footsteps (why did the person I think is Spark call her Wave, why do I not understand anything) and now I know that she is gently touching me, and that she won’t hurt me.

She starts singing. I think she’s just making it up as she goes; I’ve never heard this one before, and I’ve been trained well.

Brooke sings, almost at a whisper. She gently pets my hair, and I expect it to hurt, but it doesn’t, her hands never snag, and I melt bonelessly. The song ends, but she just whispers assurances into my hair while I cry. 

“So,” Brooke says after a few minutes. “What happened?”

I, curled up now, almost in her lap, start to blush. A lot happened, and I am not going to tell her any of it; she doesn’t deserve it.

“We found her here,” the person I think is Petal says after a pause. “She was having a panic attack.”

Brooke makes a soft sound. She pets my head a little softer.

“I’m sorry, what’s going on?” Mr. Stark asks.  
The person in yellow (Shock? Maybe Spark?) says, “She’s calming down and Wave is helping. Shush.”

Inside, I laugh. On the outside, I slowly uncurl. Then I smoothly roll (literally-it’s a somersault) to my feet. My knives are firmly away.

I can see Brooke now. Her weird costume is ocean themed, with different shades of blue and green and sometimes white that looks like foam. 

“I don’t want to go to a mind doctor,” I say firmly. I’m done doing things I don’t want. I’m already planning in my mind; how they’ll react, how to move, what to do if something strange happens. 

And I run.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> <3 thanks for reading <3
> 
> ~dragon out~


	14. Tony Tries His Best Okay

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The meeting of OCs in suit, loosing Shay, trans rights, and cuddles. 
> 
> Triggers  
> Transphobia mentioned briefly  
> Pedophilia mentioned briefly

I fly after Shay at top speed, the repulsors whining. Behind me-unable to keep up with the suit flying down the corridors-are the people I think are rookie superheroes. 

I don’t care right now. All my energy is focused on the fact that I just fully realized Shay is heavily traumatized and not 100% understanding the world around her. 

Stupid HYDRA. 

Shay is a fast runner. She probably could hold a foot race with Steve and win, even with just a second or two to spare. 

Shay is also trying very hard to get away from me, for some unconfirmed reason that is probably my father managing to screw me over from the grave. (I knew he wasn’t exactly faithful, but a pedophile?)

I growl. “J, can we go faster?”

“Not without combusting, sir.”

I hate combusting, but I also hate leaving traumatized girls to their own devices when they don’t understand and I can help them. 

I settle for top speed. 

Then Shay pulls a familiar move of jumping up and swinging herself into a vent. 

“Sir, that vent leads directly to the outside,” J says. 

I don’t know what to do. Blasting the ceiling open wouldn’t help Shay; the sounds of an explosion might send her into a panic attack again. 

I can’t rip the ceiling open, she might fall out and hurt herself and I don’t have confirmation that she has accelerated healing. 

I can’t. Help. 

“Sir, if you would break down the wall to your left,” J says. 

Oh. 

The wall shatters in an explosion of paint chips and cinder block chunks. There’s the screech of metal, and I wince, because that probably freaked Shay out. I don’t hear screaming or crying, though, so I’m hopeful that she’s fine.

Outside is a parking lot with a few trucks, one casual sedan, and two vans. These are all ignored by Shay, who is currently bolting out of the parking lot and down the street. 

Well, that’s a lot of confidence; she must have assumed she’s faster than a car. Honestly, depending on the car, she might be. (God, I hope this is her top speed, if she’s faster than this, she’s almost definitely outpacing every living thing.)

Now that I’m thinking about it while flying down the interstate, with Shay running alongside-swerve, that’s a car-Shay’s running style is very mechanical. Her arms are at ninety degree angles, pumping back-and-forth-back-and-forth at her sides as if on a track. Her footsteps sure, always landing in the same spot unless something was in that spot, her legs quicker than Usain Bolt’s. I would be intimidated, but I’ve seen Cap without a shirt on, and that was kind of my peak ability to feel that emotion. 

Mostly I’m just horrified that she’s been brainwashed so much that everything down to her running style has been changed.

As I dodge a large truck, I wonder what Shay was like before everything HYDRA has done to her. How old was she? A baby, a toddler, a child, a preteen? What was she like? 

And then Shay runs into the road, drops flat to the ground, a truck rolls over that spot, and she’s gone. 

Panic. 

Then my brain gets online and I realise she tried to throw me by hanging on the bottom of the truck, and I spin around mid-air and J locates the truck (People are starting to notice the suit and pull over and stop to look, talking loudly, filming me, but I ignore them.)

I fly above the traffic, keeping my eyes on the truck. As we pass over a bridge, I get a call. 

A call from Pepper. I, being the sucker I am, pick up.

“Tony?” she asks. “Tony, what’s going on?”  
“Uh, have the rest of the gang followed me?” I ask. “How did I mess this up more?”  
“What? What are you doing? Tony, the team is freaking out, no one has any idea where you are and Natasha thinks Spark who you apparently let take a bullet out of you-and we’ll have a conversation on that later-is a spy or something.”  
“What? Spark? A spy?”  
“Yeah, and Steve is kind of having a melt down-” I snort because the image of Captain America having a melt down is kind of amusing, then frown because Steve is freaking out, and Pepper scolds me with a sharp ‘Tony’ before continuing. “You need to give your team an explanation. Including me.”  
I wince. “Yeah, sorry, babe.”

Pepper began dating me one year and three months before I got with the rest of the team. We managed to negotiate something out-I date her and the team, and she is aware of my relationship but isn’t interested in the team. Kind of like how I’m not interested in Laura but she is Clint’s wife and Nat’s girlfriend. We know it’s going on and we all agreed, so it’s not cheating. 

I wonder if Shay would understand any of that at all. Or Barnes. It certainly took Steve a bit to get over his guilt and confusion left over from the forties. 

Then I wonder if Shay is from then. (Somewhere in the back of my brain I’m thinking about an upgrade for the suit but that’s the usual and doesn’t need much of my attention.)

Then I continue talking because I realize I’m actually having a conversation. That’s the peril of talking to me when I’m comfortable with you; I’m not uptight about what I’m saying so sometimes I wander off into my own head. 

“So, uh,” I say. “Get Steve to tell you about his long lost BFF. And how he’s alive. Then translate into that to the girl you dragged into my workshop and made call her maybe-not-mom. Anyway, I have to go chase Shay down, love you, bye.”

I hang up.

“J, can you run a heat scan on the truck and show it to me?”

The heat scan only works within fifty feet, so I have to get a little closer than most drivers are comfortable with, but I fly back up once J shows me the scan. 

There’s only the driver. 

I stop midair. 

Scan all around me. 

Imagine smashing a wall to rubble on frustration when nothing shows up. 

“J?!” I say, panicking. Shay needs help. I can’t just lose her, she needs me. 

“It appears Ms. Li is not in your immediate vicinity, sir. May I recommend searching for her?”

And that’s what I spend the next hour and a half doing, until J reminds me that she could run as fast as a car and is almost certainly gone. I turn around to head back to the tower and catch a glimpse in the corner of my eye of a flying bike.

When I look again, there’s two.

One of them is flower-themed, painted and kind of shaped like a flower. The second one is like someone took a regular motorcycle and added enough boxy machinery to make it fly, and then painted it with the fabric of the Milky Way.

As I watch, the person says something to the other flying biker, and they land. When the flower themed bike lands, it unfolds like a flower in bloom, a dust cloud flying up. The night sky one just lands with a regular cloud of dust, kind of like a plane. The flower biker takes off their helmet and I can barely see them through the cloud of dust they’ve kicked up, but I can tell enough from the colorful suit.

Of course the rookie superheroes have a flying bikes themed after their suits, why wouldn’t they do that? 

“J, who are these kiddos?”

“Online records show them to be going under the aliases ‘Super Shock’, ‘Blue Wave’, ‘Starlight’, and ‘Perfect Bloom’. They are minor heroes focusing their patrols around Bronx, Brooklyn, and the Upper East Side. They have all shown minor superhuman abilities. Super Shock can control the electricity around her as well as create it, Blue Wave can control water around her, Starlight can control the air around her, and Perfect Bloom can make nearby plants grow at an unrealistic rate to an unprecedented size.”

Who knew the Avengers would start a trend?

“Are they mutants?” I ask, “From that school?”

“Mr. Xavier’s school has not claimed them as students, but I would not dismiss the possibility of them being mutants, especially because they don’t appear to have to touch something to control their respective specialties, simply be close to it.”

“Right,” I mutter. “And I totally shouldn’t talk to them, right?”

“It’s not advisable to engage with unknown possible mutants,” J says, undoubtedly knowing what’s next.

“Awesome,” I say, flying down to them. 

They all look up at me when I land, falling silent and still. 

“Mr. Stark,” Perfect Bloom says.  
Super Shock turns to face me, legs swinging over the side of their bike until she’s leaning on it. “Nice to meet you?”  
“Nice to meet you all,” I say, pasting on my public-appearances-mask. “How do you know Shay?”

The two look at each other, Perfect Bloom looking back at Super Shock, who is sitting behind them on the bike. They have a silent conversation for a second before Perfect Bloom turns back to me.

“S-Shock asked to use my bike because a friend had been kidnapped, who turns out to be Shay. I think Shock knew her out of suit, and that’s all the information you’re getting.”

Suddenly, I need much more information. I zero in on Shock. 

Starlight looks between me and her, and gets in between us. “You’re not getting more, and you’re not interrogating anyone back at your tower.”

“Look, sweethearts,” I say. “Shay is running on a few bugged programs. She needs help. If you know something, I need to know it so I can help.”

Super Shock looks so intensely in thought that I’m surprised she hasn’t exploded yet. 

“It’s not that simple,” she says, “I wish I could, but I can’t.”

My eyes narrow. Unfortunately, the suit can’t show this unless I draw on the helmet with a sharpie. 

“Make it so,” I say, a familiar sentence. 

I can feel the eye roll. “Sir, doing that would make me reveal my identity to you, and that’s the fastest way to get me and everyone around me dead or critically injured. However, I can tell you that I am just as concerned about Shay as you are and probably know as much nothing as you about where she is.”

“What area of New York have you seen her in or heading towards?” I ask, keeping it vague to try for an answer. 

“Brooklyn, heading towards the Upper East Side. Or, um, I assumed, but if she’s enhanced, that general area I guess? Who knows, maybe the Bronx?” Starlight says very quickly, trying to distract me from her friend. 

Perfect Bloom shakes her head. She’s managed to stay calm. “She just outpaced us while running when we were flying on motorcycles. I think it’s safe to say we can’t deny the possibility.”

I huff. Yeah, that seems great. I’ll just search half of NYC instead of the entirety of it. Excellent. 

Super Shock still looks awkward, despite her friend’s efforts. She keeps shifting from foot to foot and her mask keeps twitching and shifting. J is even picking up a slightly higher amount of electricity in her area than normal.

“Mr. Stark,” she says slowly, “If it helps, I can...help you look for Shay…? In suit and off record, but I could help.”

I roll my eyes. It’s not like she’s going to be that helpful. “Sure, kid. The more the merrier. Just show up and JARVIS will let you in, I guess.”  
“Yes, sir,” she says, looking at the ground. Starlight starts herding her group back to the bikes, as they had slowly gravitated towards me as we talked. Perfect Bloom walks back to her bike on her own, striding confidently and hopping on the thing like it’s second nature.

The flower bike re-folds into its flying mode but remains hovering as Perfect Bloom waits for Super Shock to get on. Starlight waits for Blue Tide to get on before take off, which was probably smart because Tide is pretty short. 

I don’t wait for them to leave, just fly off. Or Pepper was here, she would tease me for my Dramatic Exit. 

When I get back to the tower, Nat practically tackles me. She waits until I get the suit off, though, probably because she doesn’t want unnecessary bruises. 

“Suit off, now,” she instructs. She has the same look in her eyes that she had when she first caught me in my workshop binging habit; like she’s about to defend me from myself. Soft but hard at the same time. Emotions, but with an angry red head. 

J opens the suit without my input. He knows by now my murder girlfriend is to be listened to above even by CEO girlfriend and the other male Avengers. 

Nat drags me from the balcony all the way to the debrief room. We only use that room for Extremely Important Avengers/SHIELD Business, so I know Nat is very serious right now. 

Hint: she is. 

The room has a TV on one wall, windows with black tint as another, with white boards with past mission plans taking up the others. In the middle of the room is a table big enough to sit all the Avengers, some SHIELD agents, and a lot of paperwork comfortably. 

Today, there’s only the team scattered around the table, sitting professionally and all looking at me. Bruce has curiosity, Steve a little annoyance and a lot expectant, Clint is creating a paper airplane badly, and Nat sits with a practiced mixture of calm and grace, impassive as always. 

I sit nervously, sweating a little. 

“What’s going on?” I ask.  
“You’re being spied on,” Nat announces dramatically. I relax.  
“Oh, I thought this was going to be serious, you’re just stressing about Spark.”  
Nat rolls her eyes. Steve shakes his head. “Tony, spies are not a small matter-”  
I hold up a hand. “I know, Capsicle, but Spark’s not a spy. Want her background check? Of course you do. J, bring it up.”  
A hologram pulls up in the middle of the table. It has a picture of Spark hunched over a laptop, typing something, facing towards the camera, and a bunch of text below it. I don’t have to look at it that it includes medical records (insomnia, therapy barely managed to be paid for), employment records (a few minimum wage jobs, this internship), resume (the usual bs, but it’s a pretty good resume), her job here (I didn’t know we have a department specifically for medical tech, huh), and other stuff like that. It also includes her background check, which is suspiciously clean for a supposed teen, aren’t they supposed to be rebellious and stuff? Maybe Spark was too busy working?

Oooh, that’s a sad thought. 

Nat waves the hologram away. “Background checks can be faked. Mine was, when you hired me.”

I raise an eyebrow. Nat never mentions when she spied on me, understanding it might be a sore point. She is very serious about this.

Nat leans forward. “Tony, I know you’re not concerned, but I care about you. I want to make sure you’re safe, I want to make...all of what happened up to you. And, frankly, you don’t have a good record of taking care of yourself and big issues.”

Wow, this conversation is scathing. Ouch.

I shift backwards, uncomfortable… and a little mad. “And you think you can tell better than I can? You were with her for how long? And how much of what she did was suspicious in that time?”

Nat sighs. “A highschool student would be a good cover. Innocent, a child. People will want to protect them, to help them. And her knowing enough about the body to do a surgery? That’s spy stuff. Her hesitance to tell you where she learned all the medical skills, as well...and the way she casually must have hacked something to get the phone number she called...how she had an on-hand way to trace phone calls...I mean, what do you know for sure about her, Tony?”

As she talks, she ticks the amount of Spy Evidence off on her hand. She ends up at a full five. 

“Everyone’s allowed to have secrets and to not want to share,” Bruce says. “She’s allowed to not tell you how she learned medical skills for fun, maybe people made fun of her for liking that stuff or something. And it’s not like it’s impossible for a kid to be smart, I mean, think of Peter.”

I have a sneaking suspicion about two things. One, that Bruce may be speaking out of personal experience, which I hate. Second, that Nat really, really likes Peter, as she looks like someone just stabbed her-annoyed, a little pained, and surprised.

“That’s true,” I say, stabbing a finger at Bruce. “She could just be smart, like Peter, a small genius about a decade ahead of their peers. That takes care of, like, three things. And she could just happen to be young, Nat, not everyone is in their twenties and up.”  
Steve looks thoughtful. “I don’t think Spark can entirely be explained away by plausible outcomes. I mean, why does she have a way to trace a call quickly close by?”

I dismiss his point with a wave of my hand. “She can do what she wants, maybe she’s paranoid. I mean, I made a thing like that for J, and I don’t exactly use it a lot.”

“Yes,” Nat says exasperatedly. “But, Tony, you’re a superhero.”

There’s a pause, as if the universe is appreciating Nat’s logic. 

Finally, Clint speaks. He has finished making his paper airplane and is now throwing it at Steve’s head when he speaks, just in time for Steve to turn and be hit in the forehead. “Have we considered that she might not be a sky but something else? SHIELD, maybe a superhero herself? One of the minor ones popping up?” 

As usual, Clint is smarter than he looks. 

“Ow,” Steve objects, rubbing his forehead despite being fine.  
Nat’s head tilts. “That would also explain it, but I doubt it. There are a max of thirty-five minor superheroes, and there are hundreds of agents between SHIELD and all the people that might want to spy on Stark Industries or the Avengers. It’s a statistical improbability.”

Clint shrugs, snatching up his airplane and flying it directly into the trash can, starting on a new one almost immediately. I assume that by the end of our meeting, he’ll have targeted all of us.

I resist the urge to put on my sunglasses, a tactic I use to both look like the jerk my reputation would have you believe to be me and to scan the room without people being able to see my eyes. 

Instead, I cross my arms, rolling my eyes. A classic Tony Is Annoyed stance Nat won’t suspect anything from. “Spark is a harmless highschool genius. Maybe a few secrets or too, but all of us have ‘em.”

Nat sighs. “If she comes to the Tower, can you at least tell me so I can watch her more?” she asks bargaining.  
“What, that’s not even needed, Nat-”  
“Tony,” Nat says in the most pleading way.  
I pause. Nat is concerned about me, and maybe it’s misplaced, but I can’t deny her. “Fine,” I grumble.

Nat smiles at me, relieved. “Good,” she says, like the word itself is a decision. “You all can leave, this meeting is over.”

As I leave the room, I get a text from Spark. As I sit on the couch in the team floor’s living room, I respond.

Hacker Child  
Did you find Shay  
Is she okay

Me  
I got there in time to watch her have a panic attack and chase her when she escaped  
Hacker Child  
Did she get away again

And those words broke me inside. She expected me to fail. Inside, I cry. Outside, I text her back. I have a lot of experience dealing with those pesky things called emotions. 

Me  
Yeah, she sprinted out and then somehow disappeared on the highway  
Hacker Child  
Did she get runover?!  
Me  
I checked, nope, she just went poof  
Me  
How’s your friend?  
Hacker Child  
Bruised, a broken leg they couldn’t get home on

In my gut, there’s a feeling like weightlessness. ‘They’. Like Peter, this kid is trans. This could happen to Peter. Oh my God.  
Me  
They attacked them for being trans?  
Hacker Child  
It’s not the best neighborhood

God, this poor kid. They’re just trying to live their life and they get...beat up. Oh my God, can I help with that?

“J, do we have a line of binders? Or anything for trans people, really?”  
“Not currently, sir.”

And by the end of the day, SI has a line of binders, packers, and other survival items for trans people. SI also had one very concerned CEO giving Tony Stark a phone call. 

“Tony, are you doing this working binge because you’re procrastinating talking with the team on something or because you’re trying to distract yourself again?”

My CEO girlfriend is not dumb, and she is certainly scaring me with the tone of her voice. 

“Uh?” I say, working on the concept of a binder you could safely work out in. “Second one? But also because this one trans kid that’s a friend of a kid I know got beat up, so I kind of got concerned, and then I thought of how they could happen to Peter-I mean, I know you know that Peter lets that Flash kid at his school bully him because he can’t give away his powers, so then he could feasibly be beat up, right? And then I got thinking, and obviously I can’t just destroy transphobia, but SI showing support would be really big, and-“  
“If you don’t breathe soon, you’re going to suffocate,” Pepper reminds me. 

I suck in air. While I’m doing that, Pepper asks an important question. “Puppy pile or emergency cuddles?”

Emergency cuddles are one on one and usually mean the person is hurt and want comfort from a specific person. A puppy pile is just everyone who’s available cuddling in one giant pile of human. 

“Cuddles, I don’t feel up for Nat and Steve right now,” I say quietly. 

“I’ll come down right now, just let me get there,” Pepper says, quickly hanging up. 

Pepper is in my lab by the time I manage to sit on the couch. She must have ran and had J speed up the elevator. She kicks her heels off, with them skidding away, and pushes me down to the fluffy couch. 

Following the usual pattern, she lies down as the big spoon, and I curl up like a cat, surrounded on almost all sides by comfort and warmth. Pepper pets a hand through my hair, and I smile lazily, already feeling the tension bleeding from me.

We lay there for a while. It’s only when JARVIS interrupts us that I wake from my half-doze.  
“Sir, according to the Forcing Tones To Stay Alive protocol, I’m supposed to remind you at six thirty to eat vaguely nutritious food and drink water.”  
I grumble, but get up. Pepper smiles behind me, slipping her heels on. “Go, I have to finish up some work,” she says. 

I nod, heading out. As I go, for some reason, Nat’s argument from the impromptu meeting sticks in my head. 

“But, Tony, you’re a superhero,” she had said. And then I snort. Spark isn’t a superhero. She’s barely responsible enough to sleep and eat enough not to die.

And then I laugh because I’m being hypocritical. I shake my head, hurrying, as I really want some of Steve’s concoction for dinner tonight.

Steve is amazing. (At making dinner, of course.)


	15. Revenge Leads To Bad Things

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shay gets some revenge, meets some random OCs you don’t have to pay much attention to, and then promptly ruins the rest of her day.  
> Triggers  
> Panic attacks  
> Violence  
> She might kill someone briefly i don’t remember  
> She gets drugged again  
> Mentions of non con human experimentation  
> Mentions of torture  
> Mentions of imprisonment   
> Child abuse   
> Child kidnapping  
> Death  
> Just like stay with me here ok

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We’re almost to the end!!! Also, I have no idea where this chapter can from!!! It was completely unplanned!!! Enjoy my repetition of what I’ve already done because new idea and regrets!!!

I make a mental note as I slip into the sewer, a homeless woman staring at me. Slipping off from a moving truck and rolling off a bridge hurts, especially when you land on your already-scrambled head.

My head still throbs and my vision swimming a little bit, but I’m coherent enough to stand and see, so it’s fine. I only have to stop twice; once for my swaying sense of gravity, and once to throw up in some sewage. 

I head in the direction I know NYC is from past experience I only have blurred memories of. (Something about being strapped in a van and listening to the engine and tracking the turns to evaluate location, no idea how I managed to memorize all of New York state’s roads.)

The sewer stinks, and what I really hope is water drips from the slightly disgusting ceiling to land on me. I’m careful to touch as little as possible and to not touch the sewage. Still, though, I expect to stink once I get out of here.

Turns out that part of the plan takes about three hours, even with me at a fast run most of the time (sometimes I had to climb ladders and jump over streams of ick). The base was on the edge of long island, so I had to pretty much make it across the whole island. Occasionally, I had to get out and run to the next sewer, trying to stay as out-of-sight as possible. Without the crowds of New York to hide me, I’m anxious at every glance, flinching at every sound.

Once I do get to New York, I’m seen by a group of teens as I climb out of the sewer. I freeze, staring at them like a startled deer. I whip my hood up over my face and pull the strings before going motionless. They slowly back away from me, which is probably reasonable. From their point of view, I’m a weird kid their age that hangs out in the sewer. 

I sprint out of there at a pace a fast human runner could achieve, my head ducked. 

I get a lot of weird looks on the street, a few bouts of jeering and laughter at my expense, some pitying and curious stares. One time, a person from a homeless shelter corners me and forces me to have a really awkward conversation about how they are free for anyone to come into their youth shelter, and they have food! 

My apartment, and block, is less assuming. People just give me a wide berth and let me be. My building just gives me a few weird looks on my way. I slam the door to my apartment behind me, making sure my window (facing a brick wall) has the blow-up mattress firmly in front of it, the best curtains I have, before stripping.

I smell disgusting, I realise, once I get into the shower. I use my bar of soap (I did not understand the store and its ‘shampoo’ and ‘conditioner’, you can just use soap) and scrub myself down three times, making sure to get everywhere. My cuts sting, just barely open, but I ignore them. The cool water-God forbid a high water bill-soothes me. 

When I get out, I shove the clothes I was wearing in the sink and start washing them with more help from my bar of soap. They still stink a little when I’m done, and I have to leave them on the floor because there’s nowhere better to dry them, but the situation is much better. I decide to just wash them again later and leave them to dry. 

I pull my emergency disguise stuff out of my bag, leaving the convincing wig, glasses, underwear, and cheap plastic jewelry be. I just pull on the shirt and pants and then collapse on the floor. I curl into a ball and breathe, thinking hard.

I managed to get myself back into control by the time I left that room, at least a little bit. I only killed the stupid men there and then knocked out every one else. 

I’m not sure why. It just didn’t feel right, killing when I was in control, not HYDRA or the necessity the Raven always responds to.

The Raven is not entirely separate from me. It’s just what’s left when you take away the will to live, emotion, and my conscious thought. All of those are forcibly quieted, only leaving the calm, collected thought needed for the Raven to work.

That’s how I stayed for years at a time, I think. Either that or with HYDRA controlling me completely, with me pushed to the back of my brain and my body moving without my input at all, reduced to a robot (with me screaming at myself in the background, but a robot nonetheless). 

I got lucky, I think. I mean Bucky made two new parts of himself just so he didn’t have to deal, and now he can’t remember everything (unless the others tell him, but I doubt Winter is going to go into detail about how he killed or hurt). After all, knowing is the greatest weapon ever made. It’s the one the Raven uses and the one I’ve been wielding since Mama’s acting lessons. Know the surroundings, know who you’re talking to, know three minutes ahead what’s going to happen so you can plan. 

By the end of my deep thought spiral, I realise I’m crying. I had managed to drift from there to hazy, probably repressed memories of men with octopus tattoos or unwanted influence.

Then I sit up. Slowly, because I don’t want the cuts to heal any slower than they need. I check the time-three hours later, wow-and the bruising on my face-mostly clear, they would usually be gone by now but have been delayed by the backlog of things my body is healing. Anyway, I’m good to go outside without much suspicion. 

When I go outside, one of my neighbors are in the hallway. “What happened to you earlier?” she asks, curious, not mocking.   
I give her a tired look. I need food and water, some more soap, and sleep, (being badly hurt puts me in a position where I need to take in a strange amount of food and water, and sleeping helps me not be as tired, as well as speeding up the healing process) and she is keeping me from all of the above. “I was kidnapped and escaped through the sewers,” I say, deadpan. 

As she laughs, thinking it’s a joke, I smile half-heartedly and walk away.

I do not have the energy to make up lies. I barely have the energy to walk. (And that’s saying something. Whatever I was objected with has always let me do both, never mind the physical strain my body is under.)

I manage to get to an absolutely trash Chinese restaurant that does not serve actual Chinese food. This is done because it’s about twenty feet before I can collapse against a counter and give my order-however much they can legally give me. 

The cashier stares at me, makes me confirm, makes me pay, and then makes the order. I just slump against a wall like a corpse and stare at the street, testing people for threats, until the first container is given to me. 

I practically inhale it. The cashier keeps looking equally unsettled as I eat everything the place has to offer. Then I down seven waters and leave. 

I buy soap from a store with employees as equally dead-eyed as me, saying no words and walking like the sketchily reincarnated dead.

Then I get to my apartment, unlock the door, and face plant on the floor, uncaring. I just pass out instantly.

Waking up is less pleasant, if that is possible, because I feel similar to a corpse who was given consciousness and heat. (I always run hot, around a fever. If I focus, it’s uncomfortable.)

My cuts have all healed over, of course, and the bruising is completely gone, but this is a whole new type of soreness and pain. Usually, I’m stuffed back in the cryo chamber so I don’t experience this part.

It’s why I both love and hate it. 

I pick myself up off the floor and inhale seven of my microwavable meals. They are probably really unhealthy. Then I decide it’s time for some good old fashioned violence. 

I’m not going to go for HYDRA. Just your run of the mill deserving human. And it’ll hopefully get my anger out. 

The anger lives in me a lot, white-hot, almost ready to overflow. I keep myself under control with their very intensive training skills and determination, with just a hint of detachment. 

I take stock of my body again before leaving. No bruising, sealed cuts, a little bit on tenderness, minimal swelling. I’m good to go. 

Or maybe I should lay low? I do have two very powerful entities looking for me. But I also have a lot of buzzing energy and skill in order to hide from both. 

I head out.

But first-I grab a new hoodie, some pants that are in a different color, braid my hair with some muscle memory and no actual memory, and do minimal makeup. Then I stuff all my old stuff under some trash in a dumpster and head out. 

There’s a backpack webbed to the alleyway over head. I don’t touch it. (Maybe the future has mutant spiders? They have mutant everything else. Or maybe a mutant-mutant?) (Ohhhh, he’s a dork.)

I walk directly towards the highest crime area in the city. 

It doesn’t take me long to find something. 

I call it “a man trying to steal from a woman while pointing a gun at her head”. I think it’s quite inventive. 

I approach silently behind. Neither notices me; the woman is too busy with the gun and the man, and the jerk isn’t facing me. It helps a lot, makes it much easier for me to approach from behind and break the guy’s arm. 

There’s a snap. The crunch of bone. The rush of exhilaration. The guy yells in pain and collapses, the gun hitting the floor and scittering away. I’m not concerned; the safety is on. This guy is an idiot. 

The woman looks at me with wide eyes. I nod at her, and turn around. I grab the gun and crush it in my hand before leaving, waving before walking off with her still stock-still in the alleyway. 

The next time, it’s a cashier staring at a woman that pulled a knife and demanded the cash register. The would be thief ends up with a broken wrist, two broken fingers, and a bent butchers knife. 

After that, it’s a man that pulled a gun on an ex. He leaves with some bruising on his face and a broken arm, because I couldn’t resist slapping him when he threw a few slurs at me. 

Which leads me to here, heartbeat thudding in my ears, a shotgun pointed at my head, a man with a crew cut sneering at me. 

(The soldier swings the shotgun around at me leisurely, not caring that he might shoot a thirteen year old. “Strip, sweetheart, before my trigger finger gets twitchy,” he instructs.)  
(Taking the smae shotgun and shooting him in the gut, my hands itching with the ghost of the blood my brother coughed up before dying the night before-)  
(Another man, grabbing me from behind-)  
(Dragged to the place they bring the people about to die from a disease or gas in their lungs-)  
(Strapped to a medical bed, needles in my arm, fire replacing my blood-)  
(Screaming-)  
(“Welcome to HYDRA, you pathetic scum.”)

I punch the man so hard in the gut that he doesn’t even react properly. He just sits where he landed when he was knocked off his feet, breathing labourdely. And then he snarls and starts to yell, and my hands are too shaky to do much-

(The soldier the grabs me from behind slaps me-)

I take two steps forward and kick him sloppily when he tries to get back up. I’m not breathing properly. The ex lover he was threatening has run off. I am crying so hard I can’t breathe, which I tell myself is the only reason that is true. 

“Woah, woah, woah!” A familiar voice says. “Didn’t your mother tell you it’s rude to best someone up?”

I look toward the voice, seeing the masked Spider. “He-he-“ My complaint is broken off my a sob, and to try to explain, I gesture to the shotgun on the ground. 

“Oh,” Spidey says. “Dude, you don’t try to shoot people. Uh, ma’am, do you need help?”

I manage to breathe through my tears, unable to answer. Spider-Man takes the gun and bends it in half, making it most definitely useless, but I still can’t use anything from the waist up properly in order to function.

He delivers a quick kick to the man’s crotch, dodges the swinging fists, and calmly webs him to a wall. Then he turns and crouches down next to me.

“Oh, it’s you. Are you in trouble with a gang or something? If not, you have the worst luck ever.”   
I resist throwing up, afraid of opening my mouth. 

Spider man picks me up. And let me tell you, that for a reaction. 

I hit him automatically in the jaw, right on the pressure point that makes a normal person fall unconscious. He just stumbles and rights himself while cursing the most mildly I’ve ever heard. 

“Sorry, I startled you,” he says. I stare at him. 

(No one is every sorry. Just angry.)  
(Why is he sorry? I’m the problem.)  
(I’m a problem.)

“No,” I say, not able to handle much more or a sentence. 

Spider shakes his head. “C’mon, I’ll carry you to your apartment.”

I shake my head. “Fine.”

“Get your breathing under control and manage a sentence and I’ll consider believing you, Miss I Just Had A Panic Attack Slash Flashback.”

I make a growling sound that ends up being more like grumbling without words. But I know out here isn’t safe, I’m exhausted, and having a superhero know where I live might be better than being murdered because I’m too panicky to do anything. 

He takes me to my apartment building without comment, seeming to only realize later that mistake. “I-uh-ma’am-”  
“I know you,” I manage. “Not big deal. Apartment.”  
“Right,” he says anxiously. “What floor?”

I vaguely refer upwards. He chuckles nervously and starts climbing the stairs. I swat his arm when we get my floor and again when we get to my door. He gently deposits me on the floor, I do a scan to make sure there are no threats and then take out my keys. I have to stretch to reach the lock but I get it in one try. Once the door is unlocked, I turn to Spider-Man and stare hard. He is not coming in, not when I’m guarding. 

I get to my feet, emotionally but not physically exhausted, and shoo him away. He moves three feet away and stands there, watching me. I glare at him. He shuffles a foot more away.

“You,” I say, still trying to recover, “Go. Not in here.”  
“Right,” Spider-Man says, slowly shuffling away still. “That’s your space. I’m not going to go in. But I need to make sure you stay safe.”  
“Away,” I say. In my head, most of my sentences are either in Chinese or German, so speaking English right now is like solving a word puzzle you did three years ago and only kind of remember. I’m trying to get all of my mind back online, but that probably hasn’t happened in a while, so maybe I should just aim for the equivalent of emergency services. 

I keep shooing him away until he is ten feet away, far enough that he couldn’t sprint and take me down before I get in, before as smoothly as possible unlocking, opening, going through, and relocking the door. I’m through in under five seconds, before immediately collapsing on the wall next to the door and closing my eyes. 

I probably need to sleep and eat more. Stupid unnatrually high metabolism. 

I found out that several of the foods I bought earlier are terrible and barely care. I just wash it down with instant mac n cheese. (I essentially drown my woes in microwave neon “cheese” and what I think might be noodles.)

Then I decide that I don’t want to sleep. Passing out while being constantly anxious because of your surroundings only to wake up at the slightest noise sounds more exhausting than staying awake. I also decide that I’m in this apartment (read: room) far too much. 

Spider-Man may still be outside, sticking to the ceiling or something weird, so I climb out the window and casually make my way down the side of the building to the alley, where thankfully no one is. 

My aimless walk- I don’t remember if I’ve ever done this before, it feels like a good kind of weird-is fine until I see the girl. 

She’s not doing too hot. Namely because she’s being kidnapped. This is extra bad because I’m exhausted, probably malnourished, and in possession of a clear memory of her. 

It’s Star. The one from the aquarium. I can see five men trying to take her down and three on the ground with another having fallen half on top of the male I know to be Ray. Star mentioned him during the otter exhibit and showed me a picture, talking about his dream of becoming a chef and proving his family wrong. 

I take out a knife and stab the closest man in the shoulder. Once he shouts and staggers, I smoothly turn him around, elbow him in the crotch, and drop kick him into a corner of the alley.

Then I spin, catch another man in the ribs with the same knife, hitting one and breaking it, but probably not doing lethal damage. This guy is also quickly deposited in the corner with a harsh hit to the head and a thump. The third guy tries to charge me with a kitchen knife and I raise an eyebrow, backflip off the closest wall, and choke the guy with my thighs until he passes out. While he’s still falling, I use my feet to throw myself up, do a flip, and land on the fourth guy.

Star is staring at me with the last man in a headlock. 

And then my head spins, my vision darkens, and I stumble. My shoulder hits the brick wall I was next to, and I blink rapidly, trying to improve whatever is going on. There’s a shout-feminine, probably Star-and I can tell she’s released the guy because she’s quickly approaching me. She’s wearing the completely ineffective “converse” shoes that are terrible at everything but looking good. I can tell by the sound.

“Hey, uh, Sha-” there’s a sound like “y-kgh”, a loud bang I know to be a gunshot, and my vision comes back but it’s blurry and swaying, but it’s enough that I can tell the last guy has shot her. 

I try to stand properly, but the world spins so badly I can’t focus, so I lean back against the wall. I feel so small and helpless, even though I can tell exactly where the man is-trying to attack me is really loudly done, apparently. Star is making gasping sounds that don’t sound great.

The man steps over Star, probably still locked and loaded. He doesn’t get within kicking range before he shoots me. 

It hits me right in the left lung, and goes out over my shoulder blade. I don’t know how I know this, but I do know that my lung is filling up with blood and it is not a great experience. 

My vision doubles and darkens again, I collapse to the ground coughing, and the man turns back to Star, now unconscious, and picks her body up. I manage to weakly through a knife towards the man, hoping it doesn’t hit Star and that he isn’t HYDRA dressed casual. 

He hits me where the bullet went in, cursing me out, mumbling about how this was supposed to be a simple gig but no some rando had to intervene. That’s the point that I see. When he’s putting away his gun, in the split second before the pain hits, his sleeve rides up and I can see a tattoo in the shape of an octopus. 

My only thought: warum hasst mich das schicksal? Ich hasse das so sehr.

Then I promptly pass out, probably from a mixture of blood loss, pain, oxygen deficiency due to a shot up lung, and malnutrition. 

I wake up with a superhero in my face. It’s a great way to wake up, pure panic. Really gets the blood pumping in an uncomfortably short amount of time. 

“Dude, are you a mutant? This is starting to heal over already,” the female says. She’s themed after the sun, I think, or fire, because her suit is annoyingly bright. Or maybe that’s my enhanced eyes and the headache, possibly malnutrition or the amount of adrenaline in me right now. 

I punch her back, roll to the side, and jump to my feet. (Which: ow.) I’m in fighting position by instinct instead of anything else because my vision went black for a hot second there and my sense of gravity has decided that nothing needs to make sense. 

“Woah, woah, woah!” The woman says. My eyes start clearing and I start to realize she’s wearing an actual pretty nice painting type thing of flames translated to spandex. It includes no colors that should be harsh enough to hurt the eyes. Stupid eyes. Or brain. Or scientists who made me this way. “I’m not going to hurt you!”

Her voice is slightly breathy. Either she’s lying or recovering from the punch. 

A knife slips into my hand like an old friend. What’s a mutant? “Who are you?” I snarl. 

“Uh,” the person says. “I thought most people knew me. Hard not to, what with the press coverage and all. You must be tourist or something. I’m Ever Flame, a superhero. And you’re bleeding pretty bad.”

I eye her. I can see where the suit she is wearing covers more than her body. She has hidden something, probably a weapon. 

I don’t know what a superhero is. I’m guessing it’s someone who thinks themselves above even the title of hero. 

“Okay,” I say. Then I cough because maybe my lungs haven’t healed all the way, I don’t really blame them. “Leave me alone.”

The woman raises an eyebrow. I can see it through the mask. “Even with accelerated healing, a punctured lung is a big deal, and so is a bullet wound.”

“I don’t need help,” I say. I cough again. “The blood will clear within a day max and the bullet wounds will be gone completely in around two.”

“Doesn’t stop your current blood loss,” she counters. “And that sounds like you have past experience, which I dislike.”

I ponder telling her that I dislike her presence here. Instead, I stand up weakly. All that’s in the ally is a dumpster and some blood. “There was a girl here,” I say, deciding that I might as well spread the word. “Her friend and herself were presumably attacked by a group of men. When I got here, the boy was on the ground, alongside several collapsed men, and the girl was attempting to fight. I stepped in. Now leave me alone, I’ll be fine.”

Ever Flame looks alarmed. “There was a kidnapping?” she asks, now much more serious.   
“Yes, and I’m going to go track down the people who did it, so I’m going to go,” I say conclusively.   
Ever Flame stops me with an arm in front of me. I could easily push it away, but she seems very sure she needs to stop me, so I humor her. “What?”  
“It would be less dangerous if you let me or the police handle this, a kidnapping is a big deal. Even if the hero has super fast healing.”  
I look at her cooly. “Are you planning on stopping me?”  
Ever Flame shrugs. “I was more planning on politely suggesting going to the hospital.”  
I push her arm away (down, so I don’t break her arm, she’s not that annoying) and keep walking, trying to make the bloodstains on my clothes less visible. My front and shoulder ache and itch at the same time, which I don’t love.   
“Hey!” Ever Flame calls from behind me. I don’t stop. There’s a slight pause. “Stay safe!”   
I smile. I’m glad I didn’t break her arm, she seems at least a little okay. 

The closest HYDRA base, which them might have taken them to, is in an abandoned subway route, past some radiation testing that’s been shut down but still leaves traces of dangerous chemicals.

(Kids screaming. Blood. The door to an operating room. Cat ears, snake eyes, a dog’s nose, all on children. Horrifying concoctions-the muscles of a wolf on a toddler, teeth so large and sharp they cut the seven year old constantly-)

Ah. Child testing. Probably trying to enhance others. Time to break them out.

The subway station is relatively full, but no one questions me when I check the times of the trains and promptly jump onto the track. All I get is some shocked looks and a strangled sound from an employee standing nearby. 

I move at a jog down the tunnel. There’s plenty of time until the next train. Also, I don’t think I could run full speed without my lung giving up. 

There’s an offshoot tunnel that’s dark and threatening and all that other junk. There are no lights, just an ominous descent into darkness. Too bad my eyes aren’t good enough for night vision, that would have been useful. 

I pause for a second in the opening, make sure to be out of the way of any trains that may come, depending on how long I stand here. 

There is no noise that’s suspicious. No footsteps, breathing, or voices. No gunfire, metal screeching, or screaming.

Sound proofing? I think that’s a thing. Or maybe I’m crazy. I kind of feel like it. 

I walk into the tunnel, becoming swallowed by the darkness. I close my eyes and focus. No sound outside of my footsteps and the leftover noise from the platform echoing down the tunnel. I feel no odd vibrations through the floor. 

This is remarkably well covered up. If it’s still here. Who knows, maybe my information is outdated-okay there’s the radioactive site, avoiding that. Who knows, with the serum, I might become some weird mutant who can beat people up even more.

The next door off-which lies behind four fences and door setups that I just climb over-is the one that has noises behind it. They are very faint, small enough that I couldn’t hear it without pressing an ear to the door. 

All stuff I expected-clanking, screaming, beeping, boots on concrete, wheels rolling, the too-familiar sound of men yelling. 

I punch the reinforced steel door. It’s torn off the hinges and thrown directly into the body of a now solidly unconscious man in tactical gear. 

There’s a hallway of scared children and angry HYDRA staring at me.   
“Hi,” I say. Then I punch the closest man in the jaw, and he collapses immediately. The child he was dragging along has the eyes and ears of a cat, and I think I can see claws peeking out nervously. She flinches away nervously, which lets me see a surgical scar peeking out from her collar. “Anyone want a rescue mission?”

This dramatic entrance was broken up by me being shot at. Fortunately for my organs, I have long since learned how to calculate the aim of a shot and how to dodge with the help of my bizarre speed. 

I gently push the kid out of the way, out the door, as the rest of the victims use various evasive tactics. One sticks flat to the ceiling, most dodge, a few hit the floor, one punches the nearest guard in the gut before grabbing his machine gun and opening her own fire. 

I love her so much right now. She has strangely sharp, bulging teeth that are bared threateningly and odd patches of fur. There’s even a tail swishing behind her back, like one belonging to a large wolf. It’s topped off by ears poking out of her matted brown hair. 

The hallway is clear quickly. I herd the kids out the door, careful with the ones that flinch or sway, and go back in after leaving a warning of the radiation. Wolf Child refuses to leave, hefting her gun and giving me a silent smile with too many, too large teeth. I nod back, right before I punch through another door.

There’s a small, black boy, maybe eleven years old, on a surgery table, surrounded by surgeons who are all staring at me. I raise an eyebrow.

(Boy survival critical: health declines if doctors killed.) (Doctors helping likeliness: low.) (Action: threaten for information and boy’s safety.)

I pull out my most threatening-looking knives and put one in each hand. Wolf Kid’s gun barrel peeps over my shoulder (boy obtaining bullet wound: high likeliness), and I push it away. “Go to another room,” I instruct her with my most deadly grin at the doctors, “I’ve got this.”

The door closes behind Wolf Kid.

One doctor gets enough courage to speak. He’s holding a scalpel like he can hurt me with it, jabbing the weapon at me. “Ha! Now you’re locked in here with us!”

I tilt me head. The picture of confidence and death. “I think you have it wrong. You’re locked in with me.”

A nurse drops some tweezers, it clatters on the concrete. The woman is wearing cuffs around her frail wrists (too small, too thin wrists) that I know to electrocute anyone to go outside a certain area, similarly to a dog collar. It is used for enemies that have been captured and put to work. 

I lunge forward, feinting in her direction, before taking out literally everyone else in the room. As the bodies (alive, Mama would want them alive) hit the floor, the woman stares at me with mounting fear. 

I approach her smoothly. She flinches, not fighting back. I simply take her wrists and break the cuffs. They are reinforced, but no match for my strength. Even so, it takes more effort than usual. 

The crumble to the concrete. The woman looks like she’s about to pass out. “I do not hurt victims,” I say. “Can you warn me if there is another victim I may be unaware of?”

The woman nods shakily. “Alright. In return, I will protect you,” I say. “Stay behind me. Any special powers I should be aware of?”  
“They-” her voice breaks. “I’m just a doctor. They-they wanted-”  
“It’s okay, I get it,” I say, taking her by the elbow. Should I just drop her by the door after all? But then I risk hurting victims. I settle for defending her to the death and making sure she stays away from the more traumatizing things. 

I’ve seen people like her before. Taken by accident, deemed useful but not experimentable, and forced to put to work. If they are not useful, they just dispose of the loose end. I don’t know what’s worse. 

Me, probably. 

The next seven rooms are similar. I herd victims into the marginally less dangerous hallway and with Wolf Girl I clear the hallway. It should be one of four in the base where victims are kept and “worked on” after the initial trials and survival. 

The next bit is what concerns me. The main section. Armory, tech, scientists, labs, training rooms, torture cells, sensory deprivation tanks, isolation cells, all the bad stuff. 

I glance back at Wolf Girl and Nurse Woman. “You two have names?” I ask. “Just want to show in case I have to bury one of you.”

Wolf Girl takes this in stride. The nurse pales considerably enough that I’m concerned she’ll collapse. 

Wolf Girl speaks first, her teeth glinting as she opens her mouth to speak. “I’m Silver Bailey.” She closes her mouth with an audible sound, so I assume she’s self conscious of her teeth. Fair. 

I nod and look to the nurse. 

“Uh,” she says,”Doctor Violet Patterson.”

“Awesome, welcome to the breakout mission,” I say, turning back around. “By the way, Dr. Patterson, if you do die, I’m putting violets on your grave.”

There’s only the sound of Silver replacing her machine gun with a fully loaded one. Apparently Dr. Patterson has no comment and Silver has a twitchy trigger finger. 

We hit the armory first. I stock up on guns, ammo, and knives that are good for throwing and stabbing with Silver while Dr. Patterson stands in the doorway, anxiously looking around and rubbing her wrists. 

I rub my face, getting rid of a phantom muzzle that must be similar to the ghosts of chains she must be feeling right now. I’ve noticed when she moves her arms, it’s with more force than neccesary. She adjusting, like me. 

I take a gun and hand it to her. “This is loaded,” I tell her. “This is the safety, and it’s currently on. Click it off and aim the best you can if you’re in danger I can’t help you out of.”

Dr. Patterson nods shakily. I continue, hoping she won’t have to do this. “Don’t be afraid of the recoil. Spread you legs so your body can absorb it, roll back with your core into upright position. It’s going to be loud, try not to startle. And if you can, try not to kill anyone.”

I turn back around, grab a belt full of knives and tools and hand it to her as well. “Just in case.”

She takes the belt like it’s in danger of biting her. I gently (with my strength, it’s like barely touching her, but for her it’s a firm grasp) move her fingers until they are clutching at the end of the belt. Her knuckles quickly go white from the force she’s using.

Yeah, she’s really anxious. And brave, the poor fool. 

“There are other victims forced to work, correct?” I ask. She nods, evaluating the knives on the belt without touching them. I hope she puts the thing on eventually, carrying it like that is mostly useless.  
“Excellent. Silver, have you finished restocking?” Silver flashes me a wicked grin, tossing a knife into the air and catching it again to demonstrate to me that she is ready.  
“Alright, onwards,” I say, leading the way out. 

The next room: a line of cages of various sizes, some empty, some not, some rusted and bloodstained, some not, and one that looks like it’s been ripped apart with claws. A woman is crouched next to one of the cages, and with my enhanced hearing, I can tell she’s trying to gently convince the cage’s occupant to eat. A food strike, perhaps?

She looks up like a startled deer. 

“Dr. Patterson?” I ask, taking out a knife hesitantly.  
Dr. Patterson ignores me. She rushes forward, hugging the woman close. The woman practically topples over. She doesn’t look that much larger than the terrified kid she was trying to coax into eating. “Ruby!” she cries. “Are you okay? Did they hurt you again?”

“Again?” I ask, putting my knife as away it ever gets on my person. Now that I have time, I can understand; there’s metal peeking out from the gap between gloves and sleeve. 

(They carry a man with brown, military short hair in, his lips blue and his arm so mangled I wouldn’t have recognized it as a limb before training-)  
(Screaming, there’s no sedative strong enough to numb a supersoldier, so all that’s left is the man’s, the soldier’s, the American soldier’s screaming-)

Silver has put a hand on my elbow, steadying me. She doesn’t acknowledge my brief spiral otherwise. 

I rush forward, gently taking her metal arm-noticing the other is also metal, and her left leg, half her right one-and crushing the cuffs around her wrists. Then I take a moment to breathe and distract myself via crushing the locks on the cages around the room. The children do not move from their cages, instead cowering away from me. It hurts, but I realize that I am crushing metal with my bare hands, and therefore a little intimidating.

By the time I get done with that, Ruby has been convinced by Dr. Patterson to sit and eat, and Silver is opening doors and offering water. I decide to clear the next room.

It’s full of empty solitary cells, silent as a grave. I check each one, checking for bodies to bury, just in case. I only find old blood stains. However, in order to respect the dead who died here, I bow to the room and mutter long-forgotten words. 

Then I head back to check in. By this point, the braver kids are coming out of their cages. Some of the others are crying.

I approach the closest crying child and sit outside his cage.   
“Hello,” I say. “Do you understand English?”  
The boy nods skittishly.   
“Okay, I’m Shay. Do you want to tell me your name?”  
The boy signs something in ASL. Letters, strung into a name. H-E-N-R-Y.  
Ah.

I sign back. ‘H-e-n-r-y is a good name.’  
Henry looks shocked I know sign language.   
‘How long since you last ate, H?’ I ask, finishing with a dramatic question mark to try to get him to laugh. He smiles, so, you know, half points.   
‘Long time,’ he answers. I nod understandingly.  
‘Wait, will bring,’ I tell him. He nods, hesitantly trusting in the way all traumatized seven year olds do.   
I walk past Ruby, picking up on the fact she’s trying to cry while staring at her robotic limbs without anyone seeing and purposely ‘not seeing’, and pick up a can of soup. As I walk back, I stab my pointer finger through the lid so Henry can drink. Apparently, it’s chicken noodle, but there are also veggies. Good, he’ll get actual nutrients along with the weird slime on my finger now. 

I hand the can to him and then confiscate it again when Henry pretty much chugs it. I mime going slowly, and he looks at me like he’s in pain, so I just sigh and hand him the can again. In his defense, he doesn’t barf any of it up, so that’s a plus. 

Instead, once he finishes the can, he looks at me with the most lost expression I can remember seeing. Including the eye of the children waiting to be filtered into that pit of death and Nazis. 

I open the door of his cage wider with a creak, watching him as he slowly crawls out. He has bloodstains on his shirt, and when it rides up, I can see the straight pink lines of surgical scars. 

What have they done to this little dead child named Henry? Will one of his organs just up and quit one day? Did they put a tracker where we won’t be able to get it out without killing him? Is there some weird other thing I don’t have the brains or knowledge to dream up brewing under his skin?

I take a deep breath and politely ask a recovering Ruby to take any other children and Henry to the outside hallway, where they can enjoy their freedom in the relative peace being right outside their prison and free can bring. 

I sing to several kids, carry a girl named Kayla out when she can’t walk, console a boy on his new ram’s horns, and speak to a girl in Dutch when no one else can understand her and she starts sobbing from confusion and fear. 

Silver gives me a soft smile when we move on to clearing other rooms. I don’t know why, but it makes me feel...okay. Good, maybe. 

(Like Brooke does. Her singing was so soft, and her voice is so melodic, and she just gives me stuff, emotions and food and easy conversation and invites to stare at dolphin shows and eat weird BBQ-)

I ignore a bolt of fear moving down the hallway. (The Gestapo cleanses queers, you know this, all you have to do is stop it, and it won’t be a problem-)

I try to sort this out. I don’t feel the same way about Silver and Brooke. Why?

My thoughts are interrupted by Silver opening the next door. 

It’s a medical unit with a bunch of HYDRA men and women there. I feel the anger rise (I’m always so, so angry, what’s wrong with me?), and take them all out with the help of Silver. She just stabs people in the arms and legs while I do most of the actual taking down.

The next three rooms are rooms reserved for torture of some kind. I crush metal things while Silver shreds things the best she can wither her claws until all three rooms are in ruins. I cough up blood four times during this. Silver doesn’t comment, only giving me a long look. 

The next room makes my stomach drop to somewhere around my feet.

Feathers register first. Then blood. Heavy breathing. Beeping. Star’s blank look, Ray’s worried eyes flicking between her and his own body like it’s going to implode soon. 

I don’t blame him much. That’s probably a sane reaction.

They both are topless, Star thankfully in a sports bra. They’re both on medical gurneys, strapped down on their sides and attached to several machines. I can see blood dripping from Star’s back.

Just at the base of the wings.

They’re lumpy and misshapen, purple and black and deep gray, and slightly stained by red. It looks like they grew straight out of her back; there’s no stitching and her skin leads into the feathery wings seamlessly. Star’s shaking and breathing heavily, her gaze blank in a way I’ve seen before.

It’s the face of the other supersoldiers after they got the serum. Right before some of them died and the others were brainwashed. It’s the look of someone trying to process what just happened.

Ray speaks. “They injected her with something. A few hours later...those happened. They just...split the skin at her back and came out.”

I slowly walk towards Ray. His wings are white and more of a regular wing shape, one you might see on a bird. There’s the occasional stripe of gold, like one might see on a hawk. Unlike Star, there are stitches lining the base of the wings. They surgically attached them. 

I quickly take off the straps on Ray. I can see Silver gently doing the same for Star, whispering to her assurances. 

Ray slowly sits up, his wings rustling slightly. “Can you feel them?” I ask.  
Ray’s wings twitch. “Yeah,” he whispers. “It’s...painful. Really sensitive. Like a wound.”   
I nod, even though he can’t see it, and check on the machines. His heartbeat is a little fast, probably compensating for the two extra limbs. The pressure is high as well, but his oxygen is good. I can’t really get anything else, as it’s written in essentially hormones and science speak.

I turn off the machines via unplugging them. Then I help Ray stand and take out a multitude of needles. As soon as he’s free, he rushes to Star. Speaking of, Silver is trying to coax her into moving, as Star is free from the straps, but otherwise not much has changed. She’s conscious, looking around, just emotionless and unmoving. 

“Is there something wrong with her?” I ask. It’s the most sensitive way of phrasing the question I can think of, but Ray quickly corrects me.   
“There’s nothing wrong with her. But sometimes her hormones become unbalanced, and she gets various symptoms. Nausea, pain, dissociation, off balance, fuzzy memories, and so on. Let me handle this.”

I move backwards, letting him take care of it. As Ray gently picks Star up and she groans, I wonder if Mama’s problems were caused by off hormones too. 

Ray is talking to Star quietly. “Do you need to move somehow to make it better? A certain position? What do you want me to do?”   
“Don’t touch wings,” Star manages. She snaps her mouth shut and closes her eyes immediately after. I make a mental checklist of her symptoms: she’s clearly nauseous or maybe dazed, as she doesn’t seem to like speaking. She’s in pain; she refused to move and groaned when she was jostled by Ray picking her up. Aware enough to understand words and her surroundings, judging by the fear in her eyes. 

My imagination dreams up the same look in Mama’s eyes as she’s dragged in front of her house, frantic, screaming, crying. She doesn’t know her children are safe and the men surrounding her are dangerous. She might be about to die, and she knows it. 

I focus on the now. My shoulder still aches, but my lungs are finally clear. No more looks from Silver for me. I’m dehydrated, my lips dry and starting to ache when I stretch them to speak. Hungry, too, but that’s just requiring ignoring my stomach. 

I take a deep breath in. Push it out. Silver gives me a glance, looking at my face for a millisecond too long, before nodding sharply and focusing back on Star. 

“Alright, Star,” Ray says gently. “We’re going to get out of here, okay? And then you can eat, and drink, and take your meds, and it’ll all be a little better, yeah?”

Star makes a high pitched sound from her throat, not moving her lips. She’s tense and relaxed at once, holding her body in the strangest position that would be fine if she didn't look like she’s about to explode from tension. 

I softly start muttering in Chinese the words that calmed Mama down when she was screaming and crying. No one pays me much attention. 

Ray carries Star out into the hallway. Silver leads us all, taking us to the outside, but I’m not ready for that yet. 

I need to destroy this place. 

I slip away like a ghost. I simply walk away, silently, breathing lightly and moving like a haunt. 

The next room feels colder because I’m doing it alone. It’s a storage room full of two different kinds of things. Good and bad quality, one for each type of group. I shut the door behind me so hard it breaks. 

The torture rooms. I stock up on knives and use the rest to stab through whatever I can ruin with some sharp metal. 

The labs. The scientists have evacuated by now, leaving their shivering victims behind in the observation cells. I quickly free them. 

The first is a girl with dyed purple hair. She’s like a skeleton, and her breathing is shallow. I can smell a familiar smell-they’re trying a new enhancement drug. It’s not working. 

I gently pick her up, her entire body limp and sharp in places it shouldn’t be. Her brown skin barely has any color to it at all. 

I set up a kind of gurney using the tools around me then gently place her on top of it. I do the same for a child with a high, too high, temperature and scales, a toddler with purple lips coated in crusted blood, and a man with a tail stitched to his back. 

I slowly wheel them from the room to the surgery rooms, setting them up with IVs and anything else I think might help. 

I feel so scattered. I have since I woke up. There’s no direction, no plan, no agent to report to. A blessing and a curse. Because now I’m free, but I’m so, so lost. That’s what this is, isn’t it? Just a desperate lashing out, revenge, what is my plan here? There’s no one there, no one to help me, and I need, I need-

Something. I feel like I’m boiling, overflowing, hot lava that could cure hypothermia or kill you. Like I’ve reached my goal and now I have no idea what to do, what do I do?

I’m almost aware of collapsing in rough concrete and cold metal, of shaking hands and desperate breaths, of hot tears, but not really. 

My mind flashes. Mr. Stark, Captain America (a man from my time, my time, my time, oh god), of James (James James James James Winter Winter Winter Winter Bucky Bucky Bucky Bucky god you have to be okay, please be okay), of blood, the blood on my hands, the death that follows me always, how useless and lost I am without someone there to control me, control me, controlling me since before I can remember. 

Even before the chain link fences and starvation and soldiers and smoke and corpses and the soldier, before threats and slurs and crying in the snow half dressed and bleeding, before the horror that was a place I can barely remember. 

There were slurs, fear that followed me whenever we went out in public, the stares, the glares, the mocking laughter, the pitying gazes, the flying fists and posters declaring us inhuman. 

Before that, there was Mama’s anxious glances around us, and hollow stomachs, and tears, and Blake’s bruise creams, there were scared rants telling me to never talk back, baby, because you need to live. 

Well I managed that, Mama, Blake. What’s next? What should I do? I’m a monster, what use can I be? What’s the goal, the plan? 

I need an answer. I need something. A plan, a single action, a direction to head in. And I don’t know how to do it alone.

There are so many things now. So many new things I don’t know. That I don’t know how to deal with, don’t have the background to comprehend them. There are ways that I am different, irrevocably, the ways that I am the Raven, stained with black and red. 

The nightmares, panic attacks, flashbacks, the slight tracing of scars that practically cover me, the color of my skin, the rage, the fear, the guilt, the complexity of problems that is me. 

My first thought was always what was for the good of my handlers, for HYDRA, for the mission. But all of that is gone now. Before that, it was survival-get food, get shelter, keep safe-but now all of that is taken care of. Before that, it was blissful ignorance, and I can’t go back to that. It was family, it was learning the piano and singing and eating too many sweet rolls. 

What would Mama have wanted? Blake? Maybe I should do that? Is that better? 

What would my family have wanted?

Food. Freedom. Shelter. Mama would have wanted frequent letters from Father, unlimited ingredients and sheet music, a way to make her episodes better. Blake would have wanted an herb garden that didn’t die in the winter, scrolls to read, a way to go to school without coming home with bruises.

I can’t do that.

What would they have wanted?

An end to the war (long gone). To the Nazis, to Hitler, to the oppression.

An end to oppression. That would mean the end of HYDRA, the ending of slurs thrown in the street, the ending of posters declaring worth, the end of so many impossible-to-end things. 

Sorry it took me so long, Mama. I’ve got it, I swear. I’ll make the ancestors proud, I’ll make you proud, I’ll make Blake proud. I can do this, I can handle this century and this tangled web of problems.

I come back to my body. I’m exhausted and yet mentally rejuvenated in a whole new way. I have a purpose now, not just revenge to carry out. A goal, the start to a plan. 

And it starts with wiping this place off the map.

I stand up. The tears on my cheeks have dried, but I wipe at them anyways. I purposely steady my breathing, hoping my heart rate will slow down soon. 

The place is rubble within half an hour. Silver comes in around halfway through, nods at me, goes through the shattered door, comes out with food in her arms, and leaves. When I finish and come out, Silver and Dr. Patterson are handing out food while Ruby is comforting the kids who are crying (silently or devastatingly quietly).

I have a quick conversation with Henry, making sure he’s alright, as no one else knows sign language, and get approval from the group before I lead us out.

The subway station was not prepared. 

I lead the flock, my little ducklings following behind with Ruby and Dr. Patterson keeping them going and Silver taking up the back. We have a total of fifty two kids here, all of them below eighteen. The two employees nearby drop their lunch and their jaw respectively. 

We must look quite strange, granted. Me, covered in rubble and blood. Fifty-odd kiddos following behind with assorted animal parts and sickly symptoms. Dr. Patterson and Ruby, with their faked calm and metal limbs. Silver, herding the kids along, wolf features gentle and tail swishing. 

Phones come out, cameras flash, I glare a lot. I swipe up my hood and pull the strings, a now-familiar movement. I lead us out of the station and down the street, praying I’m not drawing too much attention.

As it turns out, I am. 

A gunshot.

I curse internally, catching myself in front of the children. Henry startles at everyone else’s sudden reactions, but seems to get it after I sign ‘danger!’ at him quickly. He ducks down, following others examples, and starts sprinting. 

They head into an alleyway. I shoo away Ruby, Dr. Patterson, and Silver, pointing at the kids. They throw me concerned looks, Silver tells me to be careful, dummy, and they go to protect the children. Ruby, before leaving, tells me she’ll take them to a safe house she’s heard rumors of. I nod and push her towards safety.

Then I face my demons for the second time in twenty-four hours. At least my bullet wound is mostly okay be now. 

(Advantages: well armed, extensive training, group safe and separated.) (Disadvantages: dehydrated, malnourished, outnumbered, in public [casualties risk: high], unable to move completely [reason: hoodie must hide face, must stay anonymous], recent wound [blood cleared from lungs, but area remains tender], not on high ground, attackers not located.)

I calculate the path of the bullet to find the first sniper (probability of more snipers: almost definite), and shoot once in that area. The crowd-currently stampeding-is too loud for me to hear any reaction, but they do provide a nice amount of chaos as cover. All I have to do is occasionally dodge.

I look around for any rickashay marks. Bullets or tranq? Death or capsure? Eventually, I see a broken tranq on the ground, the needle snapped. Excellent, they don’t want me dead yet. 

Footsteps, running on a rooftop is a man with heavy boots. I shoot there too, hearing a yell soon after the echo of the shot. I hope I didn’t fatally hit him. 

I monitor the crowd, trying to tell if there is a hidden agent coming after me (likeliness: high). There’s no one that catches my eye, but there’s too much motion and crowding to be sure (danger level: high). I move on to scanning the buildings while ducking behind a half-destroyed concrete wall. 

A tranq hits the wall above me while I try to figure out an exit plan. I can’t go in the same direction of the group, but the stampeding crowd makes it hard to tell where they ended up. I postpone in order to figure out the location of the shooter and attempting hitting him while he’s lying down seven stories above me. The most I get is hit gun, knocking the thing out of his hands with a clean shot. I guess he can’t shoot me anymore.

Then there’s a voice and my blood runs cold. “Little bird,” Karpov says in Russian. Why is the leader of the Winter Soldier Program here? He usually stays out of the line of fire. “You can’t even fly, why do you leave the nest?”

(Location: center of civilian mob.) He’s in the center of the crowd, I can’t shoot him. I palm a knife and imagine stabbing him instead while scanning for assailants. They are frustratingly absent.

Footsteps on the rooftop above-turning-a spike of pain in my chest-a tranq, ripped out-the knife hitting the man in the shoulder, him flying back.

Not again. 

(Dose level: unknown. If following current pattern, thirty minutes until collapse.)

The tranq looks the same size, but who knows, they might have made it a higher density or something. 

A woman from the crowd stumbles toward my wall. I’m at first hesitant, and then I see her knife and I quickly become vengeful. Her body hits the ground very quickly, as I knocked her unconscious with the butt of my knife.

This is suspiciously easy. One at a time attackers? One threatening speech and then a vanishing act? (Attackers plan: lull and ambush.)

My fingers start to tingle and the world is getting a little fuzzy around the edges. (Potential plan of attackers: keep occupied and wait for the tranquilizer to work.) I have to fight not to gag with the nausea creeping up my throat. My pulse is starting to pick up, and I hope I don’t get hit because I’ll bleed faster now. 

I take out five more people one at a time. They each only have one weapon and practically don’t defend themselves. I can tell it’s out of inexperience; they attempt but are made up of flailing limbs and adrenaline. 

I considered sprinting for safety. They clearly know where I am and are waiting for the time for an ambush or maybe for me to pass out so they can simply collect my body. 

But also I really, really want to take out Vanko. Like, a lot. It’s almost unignorable. 

I vault the wall just in time to hear his voice. It makes the worst soundtrack to ever exist to me sprinting down the now-abandoned street. I pray I’m not heading in the direction of the safe house, but while I’m doing that-footsteps.

“Raven, I wouldn't suggest that.” Vanko is behind me. I turn and get in the most causal fighting position I can manage. 

There’s an obvious attempted-to-be-hid knife under his shirt, right on top of a bullet-proof vest. He’s holding a gun, casually waving it around as he talks. He mostly points it at me and gestures. 

“Are you sure you can fly?”

(No.)

“No, but I know you can’t.”

I might as well have smacked him. He cocks his gun, and in answer, I raise an eyebrow. I ignore the way my toes have gun numb and how my head is getting fuzzy. “You know bullets won't kill me. Not the way you’ve made me.”

Vanko laughs “I came all this way, sweetheart, I might as well try.”

(Sweetheart-)  
(Lying in the snow, the soldier-)  
(Crying-)

I snap his wrist, grab the gun as he drops it with a cry of pain, and calmly turn it on him. He cries out in pain, clutching his arm. 

“Good effort, I suppose,” I say, and then I pull the trigger.

(Sorry, Mama, this man deserves it, I promise.)

The gun explodes in my hand. I do my best not to react, only lowering my arm to my side. I try not to move my hand or wrist and hurt myself more. “Clever,” I comment. “Very convincing.” 

Then I sprint. This man can fall off a cliff, get shot, maybe arrested, whatever, but I don’t want to be around so I can die watching it. 

“Stop it! Shoot!” Vankov yells. I grit my teeth and roll into a somersault, hoping that will let me avoid a tranq to an artery, but no luck. I get hit twice in thirty seconds; left arm and right shoulder. I rip out one of them before my sense of gravity sways nauseatingly. I stumble slightly, my vision spotting.

A dirty city street, a strange sense of detachment, dancing black dots, pain in my gut, cotton in my head.

(Mission failed. Recovery unlikely.)

I scramble at my gun, still able to move my fingers, and shoot a man who gets too close. He collapses right in my fading line of vision. I try to push myself upright, but it makes me get too close to passing out. 

I curse in three languages while panting. My shoulder throbs-the tender spot doesn’t agree with being pressed against the concrete. My hand is practically on fire. I barely notice. 

Vanko squats down right in front of me. He speaks, but all I can hear is my heartbeat. Too fast, too loud.

(Blake is sweaty, lying in my arms.)  
(Panting, sweaty, cold skin.)  
(I have one hand pressed to his pulse-)  
(-the other to his back, rubbing soothing circles. His heartbeat is-)  
(Too fast-)  
(Slowing-)  
(Stopped-)

(Dead.)

(Dead.)

(Dead.)


	16. Tony Has A Good Day (ish)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I felt like I was h clear with Tony’s relationships w/ everyone else so here it is
> 
> Trigger warnings  
> Panic attacks  
> Nothing else it’s very fluffy there’s a pillow fight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Halloween everyone!!!! I’m probably going to spend it eating candy and playing dnd while in cosplay it’s going to be great. Here’s a chapter for spooky day!

Why, when Shay shows up, is she always being attacked? And why am I always unable to get there in time? 

I wasn’t even close this time. I was ten minutes away by the time Shay was gone, along with everything but the corpses. I got there in time to kick a few dead bodies around. 

At least Shay got a few hits in.

Steve keeps looking at me from across the helicarrier. I can’t tell of his gaze is sad, pitying, or confused. Maybe all of them. 

Bucky wasn’t there this time. He practically cried when he heard, but kept heading over so we could try and grab Shay. That worked well. Now we’re both just staring at each other.

Clint and Nat went to go pilot. Bruce is getting changed into his usual clothes that he keeps on the helicarrier. 

I pull up some holograms, unable to bear Steve’s gaze anymore. I start looking at the email Pepper sent me about legally destroying the company that was a cover for part of SHIELD. The documents recovered from the computers and files are sickening, maddeningly vague, and disturbingly business like or way too pleased. They talk of torture, of illigal surgeries, of kidnappings, of drug rings, of crime rings, about human testing, and, in one memorable case, about an attempt at immortality.

They call it the Winter Soldier program and I want to throw up. Guess it worked, if with about seven metric tons of brain damage. 

Then I research mental health treatment in the past, going with Super Shock’s theory with asylums and the like. 

Then I need to take a breather because I can only read about so much suffering in one go, thank you very much. 

I glance back up at Steve. He has his head in his hands, looking so wholly broken that my heart aches for him. Well, metaphorically-the surgery in a cave and then having a car battery in my chest and then being waterboarded with said car battery electrocuting me and everything that happened after that to my poor chest has fried my sensory nerves in that area. My heart still manages to beat, but other than feeling my pulse at my wrist or neck, that’s the most I ever know. 

I wonder if I would even know if I ever have a heart attack. Would it start as just another headache and end with my dead body?

I think of how Bucky, Steve, or Shay could have been just another dead body. They were supposed to be dead, or at least very old, by this point. (Well, maybe not Shay, I don’t know when she’s from, but Bucky and Steve.)

I glance up at Steve again. His shoulders are shaking. I have the sudden urge to stand up, to hug him, to say something, to comfort him. But that’s not my place. He apparently thought I hate him, he wouldn’t react well to being comforted by me in such a vulnerable state. 

“We land in ten minutes!” Clint yells. I almost startle out of my seat. 

Steve looks up, seemingly shaken out of his mood. The moment has passed. I quickly look down at my holograms as Steve pastes on his Big Strong Captain America Leader Of The Avengers personna. 

“Alright, team, we have a briefing directly after this, right after the usual check from medical, of course. The reports are due by the day after tomorrow, I know it usually would be a week from now but there isn’t exactly a lot to write.”

As I watch him bumble along, making important announcements JARVIS will make sure I follow anyways, I go back to thinking. 

Steve must feel so lost, stuffed in a time several decades from his own and forced to take up this leadership position, with the world depending on him and worshiping him, every child around him having grown up worshipping him. Heck, even most adults grew up worshipping Captain America. 

I do not, most definitely do not think about the Captain America poster next to my bed, the action figures, comics, and the other various Captain America themed merch that lived in my room growing up. (Howard did not like any of my things around the mansion, including my thoughts on how to better his designs.) 

Bruce walks in, interrupting my spiral down into a depressed pit. He’s wearing slacks and a dress shirt, his tie simply thrown around his shoulders and his glasses (for his nearsightedness) pushed into his messy hair.

I get the sudden urge to kiss him. 

I do not.

My relationship with the other Avengers is still tentative. Apparently, so much so that Steve wasn’t even aware we were dating. (Should I ask him on a one-on-one date? Surely he’s noticed past dates...but now that I think about it, we’ve always gone with more than just the two of us...is Steve really that clueless?) Natasha is asexual, not repulsed by anything sexual, but simply not attracted to it. And she doesn’t have great memories with groups of naked men, and I obviously don’t want to send her into a flashback/panic attack, so that’s out. 

Bruce is naturally shy, and he’s barely gotten to making out when in the mood with me, we’re not to the casual passing kisses stage. (Thor is because he’s Thor.)

Clint is obviously great, with none of Steve’s confusion, Bruce’s shyness, or Nat’s trauma. (Some of Nat’s skills but that’s beside the point.) 

Anyway, Clint and Pepper are currently the ones I can be casually affectionate with. There’s obviously times with the others as well, but I can just walk right up to Pep or Clint and give them a kiss without significant lead up. 

Okay. Game plan: ask Bruce, Nat, and Steve on dates and make it very, very clear my respect for them and my intentions, including the fact that we are on a date.

Bruce throws me a shy smile, and I realise my prolonged staring has probably made him self conscious. I send him a flirty wink and a smile, which turns Bruce’s face into a color comparable to that of a tomato.

I smile proudly, then go back to staring at Steve.

Steve and his one-size-too-small shirts. Which does include the suit, meaning whenever I am in the room with him, I am forced to suffer through his glorious abs.

Then I start full out day-dreaming. 

Nat, just the entirety of her, inside and out-they way her hair bounces, the way she walks, how she whispers cute things to us in Russian that she should have known by now I’m having J translate for me later, how she makes us Russian desserts once a week. 

Steve’s obvious perfection and his less obvious tiny flaws, like the way he never wipes off his dish before putting it in the dishwasher (probably coming from his confusion towards said dishwasher), the way he blushes with the entirety of his body (really, really, adorably easily), how he will always stop and pet a stray cat, even if said stray cat would very obviously rather starve and drown at once than touch him. 

Clint, how he starts and usually ends every prank war within the tower, how he makes the Face Of Concentration when shooting, his biceps (hhhnnnggg), his smile when telling a joke, the way he can absolutely not cook at all. 

Bruce, the way he forgets to eat sometimes when he’s focused on a project (not as bad as me), his attempt to seemingly try every tea to exist (I got him a full pantry for it, got a smile and a blush in return), that one time he gave me one of his (safe, I swear) experiments as a gift and I cried, how he can fall asleep anywhere (just like Steve), how he donates so religiously to charity. 

Thor, with the perfect color and cut of his golden hair, his constant laugh and smile, the too-loud words and too-strong hugs, the way he seems completely devoted to others around him, how he constantly is up for anything (he really is like a Golden Retriever). 

And while I’m at it. Pepper. The way she defends like an avenging angel, her professional brand of sass, how she can somehow get actual things done, her smile, the freckles down her back like stars, the way she likes cheesecake (even though she’s lactose sensitive and really shouldn’t eat it), the smirk she gives me when I’ve done well and someone didn’t like it and she destroys them. 

Steve is still talking, but he’s interrupted by Nat. “Steve,” she says firmly, “Stop acting like this is normal.”  
Clint stops his process of trying to balance an arrow on his nose (unsuccessful so far, but closer than last week).   
“What?” Steve asks. He was unprepared to be interrupted and clearly hasn’t processed what she said yet. And then, when it clicks, “What’s not normal?”  
Nat huffs. “We mobilized because of a single girl. Said girl is important to three of the six of us, and is a superhuman similar to you, from what I’ve seen. And she was just taken. We should be trying to find her, not typing up reports. We didn’t win any battle, there’s nothing to say. The mission isn’t over, we need to help Shay.”

Steve blinks, then slowly slumps. “Nat, I-” he blows out a quick breath. “I don’t like it either, but SHIELD is the maker of the Avengers, and this isn't authorized. We need to give Fury some reason that we hijacked his Helicarrier. I want to go after Bucky and Shay. I want to help them, but...Peggy, she started SHIELD, and I trust Peggy. And SHIELD gives us a lot of resources. We can use those to find them, but…”

“What if we leave SHIELD?” Nat asks. I straighten, concerned, but Nat waves me off. “Don’t worry, Tony, I’ve crushed all the bugs onboard. But SHIELD is only giving us things Tony could-” her eyebrows furrow, and she turns to me. “Provided you are willing to put even more time and money into this, Tony. Sorry, I shouldn’t have assumed.”

I wave her off this time.”Nat, I’m dating you guys. I’m willing to invest. Plus, Iron Man is a part of me now, and if money is needed to keep being Iron Man, I certainly have some to spare.”

Steve has gone red, glancing around at the rest of the group. It is clear we still have some stuff to work on in terms of our relationship. Bruce has gone a light pink, but not as red as earlier. 

Steve speaks hesitantly, for one of the first times to my knowledge. “So...I know this might just be another skipping-several-decades thing, but is it...the usual, for groups of people to date like this? Not that I don’t like all of you! You guys are great, I just want to know-for public appearances and things-”  
“You’re ranting,” Clint says easily. “Sorry, Steve, I guess we didn’t explain this fully, and you are obviously not used to things like this. That’s on us. But we can discuss that later. For now: are we leaving SHIELD?”

There’s an uneasy silence while we all think.

Nat crosses her legs and leans back. She looks a little too casual for this discussion. “Well, let’s go through this logically: what does SHIELD give us that we can’t otherwise have?”  
I think for a second. “Supervision to make sure we don’t make rash decisions.”  
Steve nods. “But that could also turn into the pushing of personal agendas using us as tools.”   
“Advanced weapons, but Tony can give us those, him and his company, at least,” Clint volunteers.  
Bruce is fiddling with his tie. “Maybe allies? But that’s on them if they give us access to them…”

Nat nods. “And what do we lose if we leave?”  
A short silence.  
“Potential military backup?” Bruce asks. “But I’m not exactly comfortable with certain members of the military.” I wince sympathetically.  
“Uh, eyepatch?” I say, trying to think, “But it’s not awful that we lose Pirate Grandpa.”  
“Potential corruption,” Steve says. I have a feeling he might be a little more familiar with governmental corruption than most.

“What do we gain?”

“Freedom,” Bruce says, a little quieter than normal.   
Steve cocks his head. “Lower chance of corruption.”  
“Ability to freely make allies,” I say, thinking of Pete and how SHIELD has yet to catch wind of him. 

Nat nods to Steve, passing the gauntlet of the conversation to him. Steve nods uneasily before clearing his throat and speaking. “So are we willing to quit SHIELD? Raise your hand if you are okay with it.”

I think of Peter. And all the corrupt government officials I’ve met in my life. And Bruce’s story with the military in his file. 

Bruce raises his hand. I raise mine. So does Steve. Nat does. Only Clint hesitates.

“Why do you think we should stay?” Steve asks him. Clint fidgets. “Fury-I made a deal with him that I got this farm, out of any files or records, that was mine that Laura and the kids could live on. Safely. I’m fine with leaving, but I need that farm.”  
“We’ll try to make a deal,” I say. “And if all else fails, I’ll buy the spot and give them security and legal protection from the press and whoever else, whatever they need, or they can move into the tower with us.”  
Clint thinks. “If we can keep the farm, I’m fine with it.”

Steve grins. Nat high fives him, showing no other outside emotions. Bruce hugs me, and I savor his touch before Clint gets in on it, and suddenly we’re dogpilling in the middle of the helicarrier.

“Landing,” a computerized voice says. 

There’s some bumping as we make contact with the ground while being on the floor and unsecured, but all told there’s only a few bruises so it’s alright.

We all are laughing, trying to untangle ourselves, and we manage it after a few minutes and multiple accidental bruises additionally. When we’re finally upright, everyone is smiling giddily. Clint then decides to pick Bruce up bridal style, making Bruce screech with surprise and Clint laugh. As Bruce tries to fight his way out of Clint’s arms (not that hard), Clint walks to the elevator. 

I’m watching Bruce hit Clint on the head lightly, and then-

A hand at my back, another across my knees, and then suddenly I’m in Steve’s arms. I absolutely do not make any embarrassing noises during this process. “Steve!” I yell. 

Nat peeks over at me and gives me a smirk.

“Why didn’t you pick up Nat?!” I demand.   
Steve, apparently holding me effortlessly against his very muscular chest with his very muscular arms, which I am not thinking about at all, laughs. It vibrates through me. “Nat would kill me if I tried it.”  
“That’s right,” Nat says confidently, sashaying ahead. Steve laughs again, and I grudgingly put my arms around his neck, totally because I’m afraid of falling, not because that gives me an excuse to get closer to Steve. 

Nat, in front of us, turns her head to give me a grin that makes me want to kiss her very, very badly. I settle for blowing her kiss that makes her wink at me and snuggling up to Steve’s chest. I can’t tell if Steve hugs me a little closer because of it or if I just imagined it. 

We join an ecstatic Clint and a minorly annoyed Bruce in the elevator, Nat pressing the button and turning to survey us all. Right before we get to our floor, the common floor, she swoops forward and kisses each of us squarely on the lips before gracefully exiting.

We are all left blushing messes in the elevator. Steve grins and forges outside as well, depositing me on the couch next to Nat sideways, my head in her lap, and promptly cuddling up with her as well. Clint and Bruce join us quickly, and I relax, smiling dopily up at Nat. 

I wanted this really badly. Physical contact, even if I was too scared to ask for it, is really important to me. 

Nat starts essentially petting me, running her hand through my hair gently, and at first I tense again, but I quickly melt into her touch. Steve has curled around Bruce like a very large octopus, clutching tight, and Clint is lying haphazardly across the pair and Nat, brushing me occasionally. 

“So,” Nat says, her smile prevalent in her voice, “Our relationship. Sorry, Steve.”  
“It’s okay,” Steve says. “I just...I feel like I don’t fully understand.”  
“Yeah, that’s on us,” Clint says, shifting slightly and accidentally jabbing me with his elbow. After a quick apology, he says, “Things are usually more complicated in the future, probably.”  
“Definitely,” Steve agrees.   
“So we’re all dating, first up,” I say. “Did we leave that to context, too? Are you uncomfortable with it?”  
Steve sighs. “It’s not that I don’t find you guys attractive, I just...it’s different. And...a question. I know you guys might find this silly, but-”  
Clint kicks Steve lightly in the back. “First rule of this conversation: ask questions. None of them are stupid.”  
“Yeah,” I say, barely managing it through the calm Nat’s fingers in my hair brings. I really want to kiss her, but that would mean moving from my current position. I settle for making pleased noises and cuddling further into her. Nat smiles in response.  
“Okay. Um, so we’re all dating each other. Like, uh, equally? I don’t know how to phrase it,” Steve says.  
Bruce’s voice is slightly muffled because he’s a little farther away than the others, but I can hear him say, “We all are dating all the others. Equally. I am dating all of the people in this room, none of them above the others.”  
“Then there’s relationships outside our group here,” Nat says, “Which we should also explain. Publically, Clint is Laura’s wife, and privately, I am also her girlfriend. I am dating Laura and everyone here.”  
“It’s the same with me and Pepper,” I manage. “I’m dating her, and she’s not dating the rest of you guys, but she’s dating me.”

Steve nods, blowing out a breath. “And...relationships like this are accepted or no?”  
I laugh. “They’re not common, definitely not. Especially of this size. There’s an argument on whether people who are poly are LGBTQ, but it’s mostly a yes. Which should tell you how this sort of relationship is treated publically.”  
Steve winces; after he let it slip early on that he likes men and women, we had explained the queer community and the treatment of them. Steve was split between murdering every homophobe and transphobe and crying because oh-my-god-there’s-acceptance. “Okay,” he says. “And so does this relationship require-”  
“No relationship requires anything but you,” Nat says firmly. “If you do not want something, that is a part of you, and therefore the relationship does not require it.”  
“Yeah,” I say. “Consent is important with pretty much everything.”  
Steve nods. “Sorry, guys,” he says. “You probably shouldn’t have had to explain this. I mean, how dumb am I for not even realizing fully that this was going on?”  
“You are not dumb,” Bruce says. “You are one of the most intelligent men I have ever met. You’re a genius strategist and are so, so good with people. You were willing to die for others’ safety. You’re always looking out for us on missions and carrying us back if we get hurt. Don’t you dare talk bad about yourself.”

Steve does not say anything in response. He just hugs Bruce tighter, if that’s possible. Who knew Captain America is a snuggle bug?

And then my mind does this connect the dots thing it sometimes does. Captain America goes to Steve Rogers goes to Bucky Barnes goes to Shay goes to Oh No.

I bolt upright, Nat’s hand tangling in my hair. I quickly pull up a hologram. “Stupid, stupid, stupid,” I mutter to myself, the echo of Howard’s words to me, a mantra. “How could I forget Shay?”  
Steve sighs the sigh of Atlas, bearer of the world. “Bucky,” he says, his tone lost. 

I pull up several pages of code, trying (and halfway succeeding) to hack them all at the same time. They’ve encrypted a lot of the files from the Winter Soldier program, so I run those through a code breaker. 

What comes out makes me pale. Nat sits up carefully, leaving me on her lap again, and rubs my back as I skim.

The words talk about making her swallow poisons, walk into the destruction of nuclear bombs, endure thousands of volts to the head, fight a hundred against one, brave the Arctic, so many terrible things.

They talk about missions. I scroll through the wooing of a fifty year old that makes me gag, the infiltration of several governments, and the assistance to a crime ring before a case catches me eye. I bold at the top of the page is the words ELIMINATION OF THREAT TO LOYALTY OF THE RAVEN.

Oh no. Please, don’t make this about her family. No friends or family killed in this, please, whatever god that rules this messed up world. 

Mission title: Crow’s Fall.   
Target: Chen Li. “Crow.” Relatively wealthy and powerful.  
Mission length (estimate): two days. 

Oh god. Li. Please, no.

Reason for mission (brief): biological-father to Raven. Emotional connections possible.

And then, the mission report.

Mission successful.   
Reaction of weapon: negative. Punishment needed. Chair needed. 

I don’t realise I’m crying until Clint is sitting up and wiping my tears. Nat is pretty much hugging me from behind, reading the document from over my shoulder and massaging me. Bruce and Steve have scooted closer, Steve’s face searching and kind of pained. “Tony, what is it?” Steve asks, tone verging on desperation.

I don’t think I can say the words.

Leave alone killing a friend, maybe even the friend of a friend, like Bucky had to (even if they were my parents). Killing your own father. God, no. 

Nat has basically engulfed me. Clint is pretty much in my lap, with Bruce and Steve on either side of him. 

“She-” I manage. My voice breaks. It feels like every thought in my head has been reduced to splinters. For the first time in my memory, I have ground to a halt. “They-they made her-”

I can’t say it. Someone else killing my own father, who I hated, was agony. Doing it unwillingly yourself? Unable to apologise or even give mercy if it’s not allowed?

“Tony, it’s okay,” Clint says. It’s actually more like a whisper, barely loud enough for everyone in our little group to hear it. “Well, it’s actually very not okay, but you’re okay. You have to calm down.”

He places a hand on my chest, right above the arc reactor. “I need you to press you chest towards my hand,” he says gently. Nat squeezes me gently, and I realize that I’m not breathing. My head is beginning to get fuzzy from lack of oxygen, and as it always does, this panic attack brings about an even stronger wave of fear and panic.

I push my chest outwards, and find that the motion forces my lungs to take a shallow breath. It’s awful; like my throat is only half open and my lungs are full of cotton, but it eases the building ache in my chest slightly. I catch onto the feeling, and a try to take a breath, but it makes me choke.

Clint gently shushes me and pushes me back upright. “No, no, shush, it’s okay. You don’t have to rush this. Take it slow. Push towards my hand again.”

He puts his palm to my chest again, and slowly I learn to breathe again. 

I slump into Nat, who responds easily, keeping us both upright. She hugs me, rocking us both gently while she hums a song I don’t know. Clint wipes the tears from my eyes. 

I have a headache. A crying hangover, if you will. 

“Her dad,” I whisper.   
“I know, моя любовь, I know,” Nat whispers.   
“She may not remember?” Bruce says. “Does that help?”  
“It does not, Bruce.”

God, not even knowing. Doing it, being punished, and then forced to forget. 

I remember when I was told my parents had died. The dark pit I fell into. And then when Steve and Nat told me-

No, that still stings. Steering away from that thought. 

I focus on the body heat of my teammates/boyfriends/one of my girlfriends/snuggle buddies. Steve runs hot enough that I can feel the increase in temperature from here. Nat also is warm against my back, hotter than the average. The increase in heat chases the chills from my body, letting my muscles relax and making me an exhausted puddle of warm goo. 

Clint starts braiding my hair. He’s presented with the challenge of the facts that follow: a, my hair is a little long, but not long enough for a proper braid and b, that my hair has enough product in it to make my hair style indestructible. Clint perseveres, basically ruining my entire style and taking the stiff hairs and forcing them into the proper shapes. 

I am left a warm goo puddle with several stiff braids sticking out like tails from my head. In short, I look like a fool. 

Pepper walks in, announced both by J and the clicking of her heels echoing over the hallway. 

Her hair is down, still trying to stick up in the shape of the bun she usually sports while doing Important Business Things. Her dress has wrinkles in several places and her makeup has started to wear off.

I sit up, fighting off Clint’s braiding hands. Seeing Pep like this is rare and startling enough for me to be 100% seriousness right now. 

Pepper’s heels hit the wall with twin thumps, clattering to the hardwood unceremoniously. They are followed by several hairpins, expensive earrings, a purse, and a necklace, all dumped on the counter. Pep collapses on the couch, dropping on top of Nat and slumping against her.

Pep takes a deep breath. “The HYDRA base cleared shop before we could get enough evidence to form a legal case. I mean, anyone with a brain can see that it was, but-” she lets out a sharp breath, slumping. “We can’t sue.”  
I hug Pepper around Nat, both of my girls in my arms. “It’s okay,” I say, “No one else can be hurt there.”  
Pepper nods. “Maybe not there specifically, but HYDRA is still out there.”  
“We’re working on that, ma’am,” Steve says. He gets hit with one last hairpin wrangled from Pep’s hair. “No ma’ams, Steve, I swear.”  
Steve just laughs, setting the small thing on the coffee table. “We’re fighting HYDRA, I promise. They’ll get their revenge. Maybe just not in the way they intended.”  
His eyes glint in a way that is both scary and kind of endearing. 

As Pete would say, get you a man who can fight with hellfire in his eyes and cuddle you on your couch.

I think that’s what he would say, anyway. We’re still on the “vines” course of our Tour Through The Internet class by Peter Parker. 

“Do you think that Shay will do it for us?” Clint says, now sprawled against Bruce and Steve again. Steve doesn’t even look slightly bothered by the archer splayed on top of him. Bruce does. “Or Bucky, if he escapes?”

Nat starts brushing out my braids, but not before asking if J has some quality photos. Of course, he does, because I made him too well, apparently. It’s very relaxing, despite the conversation I’m currently a part of. Maybe that’s the point. If I was doing this sitting around a meeting table, I would have either stormed out or have taken a drink by now. 

“Maybe,” Bruce says thoughtfully. “Depends on their emotional states. Like, angry phase or recovering under a rock phase?”   
“Who knows, we might get both,” I say, pouting at the holding-back-laughter face. “We do have two incredibly traumatized super soldiers rolling the dice.”

I sigh. “Let’s just hope they don’t spring for the mass genocide option,” I say. “I know I would lash out.”

I barely made it through three months of torture, nevermind seventy years of brainwashing and torture and mind control. Who wouldn’t? Who could even say they could make it? Let alone keep going?

There’s a heavy silence. Pepper sighs. “It mostly just seems like Shay is trying to recover. Which, you know, probably very confused and maybe hurt, but she’s not commiting mass genocide.”  
“But what if Barnes does?” I ask.  
Steve stiffens, suddenly defensive. “Bucky wouldn’t do that!”  
I look him in the eye. “Maybe not your Bucky from back in the forties. But we’re talking about a new, much more traumatized version of Bucky. And who knows about any other personalities he may have.”  
Steve’s shoulders rise, his face hurt, but then, after a moment of tension, he wilts. “You’re right,” he says quietly. “Bucky will be different, now. I guess I am, too. I mean, what would I do if I went back to the forties? I’d be completely lost, I probably would have had to date Peggy, God bless her, as a cover for Buck and I. It would be-well. We’re both different.”  
Pep suddenly looks slightly hesitant and a whole lot of determined. “I can’t bring you back to the forties,” she says, “But I’m tracking down our man.” There’s a pause. “After I sleep and eat because I’m kind of done for the day.”

There’s a burst of laughter from all around.

Once that’s done, Steve interrupts the peaceful silence that follows and says, “Our man?”  
Bruce smiles at him. “You think we’re kicking him to the curb?”  
I laugh. “He gets a whole floor if he wants one.”  
Nat nods with a small smile, which is a lot for her in the way of approval.   
“And who knows,” Clint says, faking thoughtfulness. It’s ruined by the way he wiggles his eyebrows. “Maybe he could even join us a little more intimately.”  
Pepper hits him with a pillow dead-on in the face. 

Clint falls with a squawk. He then promptly returns fire. Pepper’s return hits Bruce, who is defended by Steve, but accidentally hits Nat. There’s a moment of silence as we all stare at Nat, expecting murder. We all know full well not to mess with Nat, even if we all trust her with our lives on the regular. 

She responds by lightning-fast throwing a pillow at Steve’s forehead, hitting right between the eyes with an audible landing.

There’s a flurry of motion, surprised laughter, and thrown pillows. I am hit on my left shoulder, and I quickly throw the red pillow of fuzz back into the fray. We have all devolved into a pile of unclear bodies, frantic motion, and yells.

At the end of this all, there are four split seams in four pillows (unfortunately filled with feathers and fluff respectively, raining each down on us), beaming smiles, and both Clint and I are on the floor, and Nat is the clear winner. Everyone has fluff and feathers in their hair and bright eyes and smiles. 

At least for now, the demons have been vanquished with pillows.


	17. Oh Wow, Those Are Wings, Okay

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Honestly I feel like I was within five different moods while writing this so it might be a lil chaotic
> 
> Triggers  
> Aftermath of illegal human testing  
> Non con body modification   
> Panic?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is basically tying up loose ends and forwarding the plot to the climax!!! Only like three chapters left!!!

Of course Mr. Stark showed up when I tried to go help Shay. And of course I wasn’t ready to confront him, because I was so focused on Oh My God We Lost Shay Oh My God that I didn’t stop to think that I was being scatterbrained. (I guess that is part of being scatterbrained, to my credit.)

Getting back to Petal’s apartment is a large affair, as usual. First we fly back, dodging any attacks the air force launches this time, then there’s the hiding of the bike, the discrete changing out of suits away from probing eyes or cameras, and of course the acting natural while walking back to the apartment. 

It’s when we get back, when I check on Izzy for the first time since changing out of my suit (she has constant access to me in the suit, but out of it is a little more dicey and there’s not a lot of time to check your phone while looking decidedly a la natural, just here on a visit, la de da de da, here I am, chatting, nothing to see here.) 

Izzy is very decidedly panicked.

There’s seven programs running, all of them under the Emergency Procedures column. My blood turns to ice when I see the title; tracking programs, two of them. 

“Who’s missing?” I demand, barely inside the apartment. I practically trip over a stack of folded cloth getting to my laptop. 

“Star and Ray were taken walking together. The address is on-screen, but the security cameras are clear and the area is now a crime scene due to the amount of blood and unconscious criminals, so it’s not recommended to approach.” Izzy sounds as frantic as she’s able to, running through programs so fast I barely register they’re up before they’re gone again. “Suspected abductors include: HYDRA, AIM, any supervillains who happened to have escaped imprisonment or wanted to gain status or attention quickly.”

Petal has gone pale in the entryway, but quickly brings out their (gender change on the walk over) phone and presumably starts texting.

“Oh my God, okay,” I say, “Hack the police, whoever's looking into this, and see what they’ve got.”

“Already done, nothing useful located,” Izzy reports, “They were not in-suit at the time, so we cannot track suits, and their phones were destroyed in the fight that occurred before they were abducted. I have audio, do you wish to hear it?”

“Yes,” Petal says for me. 

We listen in horror as the conversation on homework for that night is interrupted with shouting, which soon turns to the sounds of a fight-groaning, shuffling feet, grunts-and then to bodies hitting the ground harshly. There’s some words from Ray, but they’re garbled, and then we hear another thump. Star starts calling to Ray, begging him to wake up, and then the impact of a punch, a startled shout, and-

A man shouts, startled, and we hear another body hit the floor, but there’s also completely separate sounds from Star fighting. Someone has come to help. Maybe Spidey? There’s more thumping, some grunts.

A garbled sentence- “Hey, Sha-” and then nothing that makes sense. 

Two gunshots. 

A man muttering about simple gigs and other things I don’t care about, because Star’s been shot. And the other person that came to help. (I don’t let myself hope it’s Shay, because that means that she’s probably kidnapped too and also shot.)

I feel nauseous.

The audio ends with a crunch that Izzy informs me was the phone being crushed. The silence is ringing after she finished speaking, neither Petal or I speaking. Izzy respects the quiet we process in, running programs silently. 

When it feels like I can breathe again, I spring into action. 

I start looking through reports of kidnappings, looking for a pattern or targeted area. Then, when that turns up a frustrating amount of nothing, I start comparing vocal records to what we have on the criminals we caught and trying to find records within the system (that I hacked a while ago when I was bored). This, probably due to our lowered volume of speaking and sketchy recording, also is useless. 

There is nothing. Nothing. 

I pull up my map that we’ve all been working on lately when on patrols. We mark where suspicious but not outright bad things are happening that we should keep an eye on, or places that seem really convenient for a crime to commit in or near. 

I press the ‘kidnapping’ button and hope.

The blue dots light up, sharpening to make them pop out from the map of NYC. There’s tons of them; NYC is large and there’s plenty of criminals and suspicious things going on at all hours. And there’s no shortage of abandoned, usable places scattered throughout. 

“How long ago did this happen?” I ask, “Can we realistically cross any of these off the list?”

“This happened towards the beginning of your journey home, around two hours ago.”

Petal and I spend the next four hours doing various kind of panicked things to try to locate them. Sometimes Petal forces me to stop and eat or something, but mostly I just code and try to power through. 

Then we get a distress signal, and my heart drops to somewhere around my feet with my stomach, before hopping right up into my throat. 

It’s an orange signal-both are hurt and sending up their location from a relatively okay spot to be picked up. If it was red, that would mean they are hurt and need immediate rescue from an unsafe spot. 

We both see the signal at the exact same time. The address is of an abandoned warehouse by the docks, which according to Izzy is property of a person, not a company, that has done nothing on record with the building. 

We scramble out of the apartment. We’re soon on the roof and slapping our suits on over our clothes before launching the bikes hurriedly and starting off. 

The warehouse is creepy, but for an abandoned warehouse, it’s suspiciously active. There’s dim light in some of the windows, I can hear doors open and closing echoing off the nearby water and docks, and there’s some grim faces lingering around. 

“Something’s up,” Petal whispers through the comms. “There’s more than just them here.”  
“They could have broken up a trafficking ring and moved everyone here and then sent up the signal?” I say. The rooftop nearby that we’re perched on has an okay view, but even the best rooftop would only let us see so much. 

One of the people below looks up at our rooftop suddenly, and we both drop flat and go silent. At this point it’s instinct. Were we too loud and drew attention? No, we were practically whispering.

But the face of person before I hit the deck is stuck in my mind. That was a kid. A child. I could see it in the girl’s eyes, in her face (like it once had baby fat but then that was starved away). The other unsettling thing was that the eyes most definitely were not human. They were like a snake’s, a thin pupil with mostly color surrounding it.

Snakes “hear” vibrations. That girl knows we’re here.

I send Petal a message through Izzy and hope they can figure out something. Judging by Petal’s suddenly panicked face, I don’t think they delivered. 

Our simultaneous mini panic attacks are interrupted by Holy Jesus that’s a wolf child. I squeak (mention this to no one) and scramble backwards while Petal slams their hands to the ground, probably calling for plants or something, and then uses the position to clumsily somersault backwards. 

The wolf girl is unimpressed. She sniffs the air around us, studying the both of us intensely. This gives me the chance to a, panic about the fact that I’m in danger and get over it, and b, look closer at her features.

She’s human, kind of. There are ears that were obviously stitched on (internally the doctor side of me is both panicking and trying to figure out how on Earth that happened and why they are able to move, are they connected to her nervous system because if so-), a tail that I can’t see the base of but is probably the same, and instead of fingernails she has claws that I don’t want to do more than see. She also isn’t distinctly hostile, but while I’m inside the suit I live on the wary side of life. 

“Um, hi, we’re not going to hurt you,” I say, “Hopefully, uh, only in self defense, promise. I just-we’re-”  
“We have some friends here,” Petal says, their voice steely-calm. “One girl and a boy, teenagers. We want to get them back so we can help them.”

“Describe them,” the wolf girl says, and I can see and hear her suspicion. “And I’ll consider it.”

Petal huffs, her fingers twitching. A weed cracks some concrete to rubble next to her. Wolf girl tenses at the noise in a way similar to PTSD (oh no, I don’t like this at all). “The girl has long black hair, likes to keep it in a ponytail or in a beanie when it’s colder. Usually wearing jeans and a tee shirt. Kind of pointy nose, naturally sharp cheekbones. Uh, Ray has blonde hair that he gells forward on top, the rest of his head is shaved. Probably wearing cargo pants.” (I can hear their disapproval, Petal does not like cargo pants.) “Maybe some baggy jeans, probably with a hoodie or another tee. Weirdly big feet. Do I need to keep going?”

The wolf girl scoffs. “And who are you?”

“I’m Super Shock,” I say gently, because her teeth are way too big and sharp and I don’t want to be essentially attacked be a wolf, “And this is Perfect Bloom. We’re superheroes, we protect people.”

Wolf girl raises an eyebrow. “Fine,” she huffs, before promptly swinging over the edge of the building. She lands on the fire escape with a clang and then climbs down using her claws to keep her up. Petal and I just ride down on a plant they conjured because they needed to get some energy out. 

I take a deep breath and look around again, this time from the ground. There seems to be a lot of people there, all looking between ten, max, and maybe early twenties. They all have something weird about them, clumsily hidden; horns, ears, strange markings, tails. 

They all look like none of those extras were natural. 

I have enough tact not to bring it up; with the way everyone’s moving, they are very, very traumatized and likely to bolt at the slightest of anything. I don’t want to lose a peaceful way to Ray and Star because I have a loose tongue. But I do have Izzy make a note of it; we’ll know to look out for illegal human testing for our patrols in the future. 

The wolf girl leads us to the area where shipments would be brought in and out. It seems to be their entrance and exit instead of more conventional methods. 

Inside is a whole lot of awful. 

There’s a woman-hopefully a doctor-patching up a ton of kids lying on blankets, somehow all obviously hurt. One kid is throwing up in a bucket, another is groaning from fetal position and clutching his head. A girl is cautiously poking at a patch of skin that is very irritated and red, a toddler (oh my God a toddler) is sitting grimly and staring at some new claws and irritated fingers. The woman is stitching closed an open wound surrounding a reptilian tail on a young boy, maybe five or six. 

Completely forgetting my situation, I rush over and start helping. The tail has to be immobilized in order for the stitching to be exact enough to be helpful, so I hold the base still with one hand so the kid’s pained twitches don’t ruin any stitches. With the other hand, I start adding bruise cream I have in my suit on the kid’s intense, suspicious bruising. 

The woman blinks at me, sees the confident way I’m moving, then nods. “Dr. Patterson,” she says.  
“You might know me as Super Shock.”  
“I don’t.” The boy is crying into his elbow, and I try to be as gentle as possible. There’s obviously no pain killers, and he’s so, so young.   
“That’s fine, I’m not exactly a big shot.”  
“You have qualifications?” I huff. I’m too young for med school, even though it really is my goal for the future.   
“Does experience stitching up stupid superheroes with no concern for their own well being count?”  
“HEY!” Petal yells. They have started wandering around, looking for Ray and Star.   
“Sure,” Dr. Patterson says, ignoring Petal’s indignant expression, “There’s no way to have a real background in this anyway.”  
I nod, and instead of replying I begin murmuring platitudes to the boy. 

When the stitching is done and the blood is all wiped away and the boy has passed out, I look around again. 

Izzy speaks, lovingly exasperated, “Spark, I would suggest looking for Star and Ray as they did indicate they were hurt.”

I gasp. “Oh, right!”

I start scanning down the rows, and then I see Petal, crouching down and obscuring my view of the person on the blanket, but I can see a halo of long black hair and Ray’s anxious self.

I sprint there.

Star is passed out on the blanket, face down. I can see that she’s breathing, and she’s not actively bleeding, but that all almost registers second over the fact that oh-my-God-Star-has-wings.

The area was clearly bleeding in the past, because Petal is gently washing away crusted blood from the point where her back meets the base of the wings. The wings are massive, maybe taller than Star herself, and several colors I’ve never seen in nature before. There’s some regular-black, grey, some scattered white, a few hints of gold, but then there’s purple, and blue, and indigo with inspiration from the void, all part of a mishmash that makes it look like the wings were splattered with paint and that’s how the color was determined. They’re also weirdly shaped-there’s random lumps and caves along the pair of limbs that (even though I am not a bird expert) doesn’t look like the regular.

And above all of this, the fact that oh-my-God-there’s-wings.

Ray also has them, just not quite as disastrously. He has wings that look like they could be found in nature, white and gold with grey along the edges of the plumage, just as massive but not as misshapen. There’s stitching at the base of the wings, holding the things to his body, but someone clearly has achieved more than that because Ray keeps gingerly moving them to adjust and see Star better.

Star’s wings keep twitching in her sleep so I don’t think her nervous system is reacting well to the new area. 

(Holy bleep, I’m out of my depth.)

“Okay,” I say breathily, “Let’s do this.”

I get down and start inspecting in-depth. There’s crusted blood covering the entirety of both the wings like a dried out membrane, so maybe they were made inside the body before bursting out of her back. That would explain the larger amount of crusted blood along the crease between the wings and her back. The feathers are mostly partially broken, out of place, or crusted in blood, or sometimes all of the above. In particularly bad places, I can see underneath the feathers to a layer of thin, small scales that are somewhere between deep purple and black. 

How are these colorings even possible? Does she have a new organ making them or something?

“Start coming out the feathers, cleaning off the blood and stuff. Take your best guess on where they should be, this looks uncomfortable,” I tell Petal, moving to the rest of Star’s body. 

To be able to construct two new massive limbs within less than twelve hours is practically ludicrous. They must have given her some type of enhancing drug as well, like what Captain America and Shay experienced, and doesn’t that make me feel awful. It also explains why Star so suddenly looks gaunt, pale, and tired. I start gently feeling around Star’s core, because there must be something more than the wings to this.

It’s just not possible to both make those colorings naturally within the body and to make two huge limbs within the time frame. There’s got to be some organ or something responsible that is also here. 

I find two suspicious lumps near the lungs. They seem to be inflating and deflating like the lungs, from the way Star’s chest is rising and falling, so I assume they’re just additional lungs and make a note of it to Iz to remind me to take an X-ray ASAP to get a closer look. Then there’s the lump past the ribs, towards the right hip, and when I press on the other side there’s a similar feeling. Maybe those made the wings or at least the chemicals to make them this color?

I go through the regular stuff after not being able to tell if anything else is there (X. Ray. Soon.), checking her throat (unblocked airway), her eyes (she’s asleep so I don’t just open them because she clearly needs it but wow, those are some impressive and very new bags there), the ears. The last of the above is concerning. 

They are an agitated red. I poke around the shell of the ear but it’s normal, so I take out my phone and shine the flashlight down the canal, and holy bleep.

What on earth is going on with her ears?

“Spark, I would guess that is an additional organ or other body part in order to either accentuate hearing or perhaps protect what already exists.”

“Right,” I say nervously. How is this even possible. (Also I should add an X-ray feature to the suit or maybe my phone because I really want to know what’s up with Star right now without having to lug her to my apartment to get to the home-made x-ray machine.) 

I move on to Ray. He does his best to sit up in order to let me do my thing, but it leaves his wings awkwardly sprawled out in the surrounding area. 

Ray is overall simpler. But instead of weird lumps, he has the fun addition of barely-healed surgery lines and the weird lumps.

Suddenly I understand the careful movements and occasional wincing.

Now that I know what I’m looking for, it’s slightly faster. The only differences are that Ray’s ears are untouched and he looks to still have an ounce of fat on his body. (And the surgical marks but we’re doing an overall scan before I freak out over those.)

Then I gently, gently, gently, lift up Ray’s shirt again and look over the surgical marks. There’s four, one for each lump, and all of the above are red and puckered and fresh. At least they’re not bleeding.

“You need some pain meds, dude,” I say, “You should be high as a kite right now.”  
Ray laughs hollowly. “It would be appreciated, as long as I don’t get an opiod addiction.”

I lean back and consider both Star and Ray. “Izzy,” I say slowly, “Send up our location and a signal for all hands on deck, non-combat, medical emergency. We need as much medical attention as possible, so have someone break into my apartment and bring everything they can over here. In particular, my meds kit, the x-ray, PET, and MRI machines. We’re bringing out the big guns.”

“Message sent.”

“Okay,” I say again, “Okay. I’ve got this.”

“You sound very sure of that,” Petal says through gritted teeth. She currently is trying to comb Star’s feathers into the correct spots using the way Ray is doing the same to his own wings as a guide. Ray’s shoulders keep getting progressively less tense, so I assume my fix-the-wings idea was a good one. 

There’s a pile of broken feathers in between Star’s wings and Ray’s wings. I watch Ray pull out a broken feather with a wince and then immediately look so much more comfortable. I decide not to question anything anymore and sit down behind Ray so I can comb through the parts he can’t reach. 

And that’s how we are when Brooke (wearing a backpack and the suit) and Bryn (just the suit) stroll into the place, chatting happily with the wolf girl, Brooke waving at Dr. Patterson and looking sad at all of the kids on blankets. She starts to crouch down to help a girl get her teddy bear back, but then Bryn’s eyes meet mine, as I sit behind Ray with his new wings and next to Star, unconscious and also with new wings, who is currently being tended to by a stressed Petal. They freeze for a second, then jerkily come alive in time to intercept Brooke when she stands up, finished with the girl and her teddy, and point. 

I give an awkward little wave. 

Brooke appears to have a moment of loading before she’s sprinting toward our little group. Bryn is there much faster on the uptake, just taking things at face value and coming to assist. 

“What-” Brooke starts when she gets to us, eyes flicking over the four of us. Bryn, a slower runner by a slight amount, interrupts when they practically trip over Ray and I. “What happened? Is Star-oh my God, how did this happen?”

“I call it kidnapping, I think it’s very original,” Ray rasps. “Star got it worse than me, passed out a while ago.”  
“Yup,” I say, “Brooke, Bryn, can one of you get us some water? Blood is kind of hard to remove form feathers through friction alone.”

Bryn’s hand twitches, and without them even looking around, water twists gracefully from a bucket catching rainwater in the corner, filters itself by depositing all sediment back into the bucket with small thunking sounds, and to the utter awe of pretty much everyone in the building, floats over to us. Brooke, good with more detailed things, takes over and starts gently coaxing the stained feathers to cleanliness. 

Petal glances up at them, offers a confused and tired smile, before focusing solely on their task. Bryn starts to help her while Brooke finishes up the cleaning process. 

We finish quickly after that. Ray is practically a puddle of goo on the floor, unaware of the tenseness and worry the rest of us contain. Star remains unconscious, but her wings twitch less.

Petal, Bryn, Brooke, and I huddle together, letting the two chill out for a second while we talk. 

“What’s going on?” Bryn hisses. They look even more stressed than usual.   
“Star and Ray went missing a few hours ago, we were busy and didn’t get the orange signal until later. I assume everyone else was the same, because we’re the first here,” Petal whispers. Brooke’s hands are rubbing patterns into themselves, a sign of her worry and ADHD. “Anyway, Iz sent us an audio recording of them being kidnapped, we followed the orange signal here. Found both of these suckers with wings and quite a few scrapes.”

“Ray has surgical marks,” I say. Everyone zeroes in on me very quickly. I wince, thinking back. “They seem to have added around four organs. I’d be surprised if his body doesn’t reject them. And Star, well, uh, it seems like they may have enhanced her Captain America style, just without the consent and adding some wings and the organs in the same spots.”

Yeah, it doesn’t look like I calmed anyone down. 

“Yeah, uh, it looks like the wings came out of her instead of being surgically added like Ray’s were, meaning they injected her with some kind of serum that made Star’s body create the wings and the other organs I felt, explaining why her wings had more kinds and volume of gunk on it…” I realise I was anxiously science-ing out loud, so I quickly say, “Can I get the machines so I can double check? I want more information.”

Bryn, with an almost palpable amount of concern, hands over the machines. They have been improved by both me and Ember and Bryn themself to make them around three feet by six inches each. It makes them portable enough to be stuffed into, say, Brooke’s backpack. 

We should probably get a patent for these things, speaking of.

Anyway, I scan over Star and then Ray relatively quickly. There seems to be two small organs to either side of each lung that appears to simply function as extra lungs, which I guess would let you get more oxygen in higher altitudes wings would allow you to get to. By the hips, nestled right along the bones with only a layer of tissue between the two, are similarly mirrored, and they seem to just be really large organs that create things like the wing color as well as acting as an extension to the digestive system, probably to keep up with the higher amount of calories needed for two new wings. Within the wings themselves, there are other, smaller things, like hollow bones, weirdly powerful looking muscles for a human (but honestly what’s regular about this), and what looks like is creates the feathers themselves (it’s kind of like hair when I look closer).

The nervous system concerns me more. All the stuff above looks fine (I think, I have no reference point, for all I know it could be killing them), but the nerves might as well have taken an explosion. 

The system itself is vaguely functional, clearly, but it’s kind of haphazardly attached to the regular nervous system. They’ve tried their best to create nerves and attach those to the body, which didn’t go perfectly. But they don’t seem to be actively dying from it or experiencing a seizure, so I’m not willing to mess around with it even more, because I don’t want to risk making a horrible mistake.

“I’m going to cautiously say they’re okay as they can be,” I say, “Like, they’re surprisingly fine, minus the run of the mill fractured rib Ray's sporting that he should really be more careful with and what looks like a sprained wrist I can wrap up on Star. Really, they’re amazingly fine, theoretically.”

“Theoretically?” Bryn asks, laying Ray down in order to take pressure off his rib that he did not tell me about, the traitor. 

“You hiding a human with surgically attached or forcefully created wings I can compare them to?” I say, “I don’t really have any background knowledge or reference here. They seem, like, relatively okay, discounting the nervous system’s haphazard attachment that shouldn’t be too disastrous if I don’t mess with it too badly.”

Brooke starts singing softly to an unconscious Star. It’s what she does when she’s worried for someone she cares about who’s hurt. She’s also brushing out her hair with her fingers, which is very sweet, because Star’s hair is currently a mess. 

Bryn sits down next to Ray, who looks like he’s in the process of passing out. 

In the corner of my eye, I spot movement. I turn to see the wolf girl. Brooke looks up with me, and she smiles hesitantly. “Hi, Silver,” she says.

“What are those?” she asks. “Did I miss some great invention? It’s only been three months.”

She was kidnapped for three months? Wow. No wonder she’s so healed from whatever they did to her. 

“It’s something I helped make,” I say, gesturing uselessly with the x-ray machine in my hands like it’s suddenly become a slab of rock I’m awkwardly clutching. “It’s an x-ray machine, just smaller. I have other things too, to scan other stuff. Than bones.”

Wow, I was very unprepared for that. That response was a hot mess, okay. 

Silver nods, inspecting the thing. She then looks up at me, studying my face. “Can you use it to check out other people here? I know you’re here for your friends, but all we have is Dr. Patterson and there’s a lot of kids, and she left us behind to fight, so…”

I decide any of this is not my business other than clues to tracking down whoever did this to them. I also decide that I would love to help everyone in the world and this warehouse is a good start.

“I can do better than scan them, I’ll go do that right now,” I say, and suddenly I’m off. 

Things I learn in the next thirty minutes: the human body is suprisingly resiliant against stupid chances, bones can apparently just twist like that, organs being rejected causes a fever, and how to stop a barfing kid from losing every calorie he ever possesed. 

Petal, when I get back, is distributing potatoes that they apparently grew in the half hour I was away. I approve, glad they remembered that one time I was ranting about proper nutrition (of which potatoes are excellent) and the fact that no one in our group is getting it. Brooke and Bryn are doing the same with any water they can find, leaving a now-sleeping Ray and a as-of-yet unconscious Star. 

I make sure to check Ray’s breathing to see if he’ll catch pneumonia with those fractured ribs and assure myself there is no undue pressure on his chest. I then dab water on both Ray and Star’s foreheads, because the rejection of whatever was added has begun and they’ve both started to run fevers as their bodies react. I hope neither of them wake up in time to feel the full brunt of the transition. 

We eventually leave. It takes a bit. Mostly because Petal and Bryn can’t urge us to leave faster and stop mother henning people when they are both carrying two unconscious winged teens and dealing with the moral consequences of stopping two people from helping hurt children the best they can. 

We sneak into my apartment about as subtly as a pack of elephants would. Three of my neighbors see us, giving the blankets draped over Star and Ray that are suspicously places long glances. I try to give them my best ‘hi please don’t report us to the police’ smile while cracking a joke about them drinking a bit too much, teenagers, you know?

My blood pressure, my poor, poor blood pressure. 

My dad sees us from the kitchen, sees the distressed look on my face, the slumped forms of Ray and Star, and then promptly turns around with a pointed look and goes to his room. My thankfulness for his chill and ‘we’ll talk later, do you thing’ ways skyrockets. I let Petal place Star on the couch and Bryn deposit poor Ray on my bed, because he is less likely to bleed all over it. Then I ruffle through my room for the hidden IV bags (dad doesn’t look through my stuff, he’s chill, like shockingly chill, but it’d be hard to explain) and hook both of them up. I put a little sleeping meds in Ray’s because he needs to sleep off those illegal human testing surgeries under surveillance (which Izzy provides through the Baby Monitor Protocol). I let Star be because I don’t know if the meds will mess with her already delicate hormonal balance, and decide that if she wants to be put under when she wakes up I can do that after she gets some food in her. 

Speaking of, Petal knows the drill. With Brooke, the cook extraordinaire of our group outside of Ray (duh, he wants to be a chef), Petal is making the standard: a soup with chicken broth as a base, finely chopped veggies heavy on the potatoes, some milk, and various herbs, maybe with some chopped chicken if there is any. We don’t have any of the last bit, so it’s the standard post-bad-mission meal. 

I made it the standard after a consult with Star and Ray when Star, our impromptu leader, was worried about what we should eat after a bad mission to heal quickly (critical when you have gym every week day and are expected to do about the same each time) and called Ray (the effective dietician) and me (the medical consultant in all things superhero). The end result was a meal light enough that if one of us manages to be kidnapped for a long period of time, they probably wouldn’t immediately throw it up, but also nutrient rich and varied enough that it would actually help their body out. We established it as the standard so we could sneakily introduce nutrients like concerned parents sneaking spinach into their toddlers’ brownies. 

I go to dad’s room to try and explain literally anything to him, because this man is a saint and deserves it. During the short walk, I start going over what to say.

Hey, dad, what’s up, I know you probably think my friends are blackout drunks or druggies or something, but it’s actually fine, because we’re superheroes and they need to recover from being kidnapped...

So, dad, my friends were kidnapped, and they can’t go to the hospital because they were part of illegal human testing by some kind of shady organisation and that would cause suspicion we don’t want because we’re superheroes…

Hi, dad, I know you’re probably really concerned, but my friends need to chill here for a bit before going home because they were kidnapped and experimented on and we can’t call the cops because there’s a chance they might arrest us for vigilantism or at least draw attention that would be bad because of said illegal human testing organization getting revenge or just Tony Stark himself figuring us out and trying to recruit us for the Avengers or something...

I get to the door and have no plan, but I have no option because the walls are paper thin and he can totally hear my footsteps. 

I take a deep breath, hope for mercy, and open the door.

Dad looks up from a book he most definitely was not reading. His ear is too close to the wall and tilted the wrong way, and he never sits properly when he reads. But I guess spying is appropriate here. 

“Hi,” I say weakly.  
“Hello,” dad says. He puts his book down, sighing. “Are your friend hurt? Ray and Star, right?”

“Uh, yes. I mean no. I mean, uh, kind of?” I stutter. “Uh, yeah, they’re Star and Ray, and, uh, they’ll get better?”

I am frantically trying to find an excuse. I would use Star’s messed up hormones, but Ray’s out too. A fight would cause too much suspicion, Ray is going very carefully with the court breathing down his neck to make sure he’s suitable to live by himself. Self defense in said fight? No, Star would kick their butts, especially with Ray’s backup. Mobbed by bullies? No, it’s a weekend, why would we run into bullies? What about-

“What’s wrong with them?” Dad asks. He stands up and starts pacing. 

“Well, uh,” I say, still trying to come up with literally anything. “I can’t tell you a lot, Dad, and I wish I could, but it would kind of put you in danger-”  
Dad looks up at me very seriously and speaks slowly, as if afraid of the weight of the words. “Sweetheart, if you’re in some kind of trouble with any gangs-”  
Cue the panic. “Dad!”   
“I mean, I get that we don’t have a lot of money, but you don’t have to do that, sweetheart, we’ll figure something out-”  
“Oh my God! Dad! No!”  
“I mean, it’s really just a lot more trouble than treasure, and I don’t want you to get hurt more-don’t think I don’t see those bruises you walk around with.”  
“Dad!” I practically yell, willing to do anything for him to shut up. “I’m not in trouble with any gangs!” 

Then my brain fact-checks this statement, rates it as a lie, and I quickly add, stupidly, “Well, technically I am, they really don’t like it when you interrupt their robberies and beatdowns and stuff-but not like that! Dad! Oh my God!”

Dad is an odd combo of concerned and confused. “Sophia? Baby, please just tell my what’s going on. It doesn’t have to be everything I just-something?” And he sounds so pleading and it hurts my soul. 

Silence which I stand guiltily in. A moment of contemplation. The considering of NYC apartment paper thin walls. 

“Okay, so I’m going to say this, and it’s going to sound really stupid, but I have to do it whispering in your ear because it’s vaguely illegal and kind of dangerous for others to know,” I admit, spitting out the words like it will make the thing that comes after them less awful. 

Dad gives me an odd look, but gets up. Dad is a rather tall guy, as the name Maxwell Dillon gives you the impression of, and I inherited none of it. Average height for me! In this case, it makes me feel small and like a kid again, which is frustrating because Dad is being amazing and literally couldn’t do better and yet I feel stupid.

(Move work create move move move move run move silent move silent move create? Move-)  
(Shut up.)

I have to get on my toes to whisper in his ear, making this entire thing kind of awkward for both of us. He stoops down, I stretch up and spill my soul. 

“Dad, I’m Super Shock,” I say quickly, “My friends out there are other superheroes. We-well, we’ve pissed off some gangs in our time, but that’s not who hurt Ray and Star. They-they uh, sent out a signal. Orange. Hurt, but not in immediate danger. Uh, Izzy-she’s an AI, remember I introduced her to you?” I ask, because I have enough shame to show my father at least Izzy. “Yeah, but we were busy at the time they were actually kidnapped-doing-uh, stuff-” I also have too little shame to admit I was being interrogated really awkwardly by Tony Stark himself. “And when we got back, Izzy alerted us, and then we went to the location and got ‘em back.”

Dad’s face went through an odd series of expressions during this confession. Concern to confusion to grim understanding to searching to understanding. It was quite a rollercoaster for me, and I wasn’t even the one experiencing it. 

“And how are they hurt?” Dad says slowly. I’m confused for a second before I realise that my dad has put aside everything else to prioritize the injured and my heart melts. 

“They-uh-um. So there’s this organization, global, we think, and it’s basically just made up of Nazis. And, uh, obviously not good people, but they’ve been active since World War 2. They’re called HYDRA, we’re learning about how they contributed to the War in history-anyway, they’re still active-” I trail off, thinking of my rant and pausing to put my words in the correct order. “They do awful things. In this case, it was human testing. They-well. Come see, you won’t hurt them.”

I gently take my concerned/shocked father’s arm and lead him into my room. I figured disrupting Star was more risky than Ray since Ray is medically subdued and has less mental issues we could accidentally screw up. 

Ray, predictably, is out cold. My bed has been pushed to the center of the small room so his wings can spread to either side, pushing my desk, bookcase, and bedside tables to the edges of the walls and corners. Ray is face-down, head to the right, and I check that he’s breathing properly and that there is indeed a trash can immediately beside the bed in case his body decides barfing is a good course of action while my father gingerly steps into the room. The inspection of Ray is entirely visual; I think Dad is scared to touch Ray in case he hurts him. It makes sense; Ray wears no shirt, only bandages around the base of the wings, leaving the area of difficulty clear. 

“They stitched them on,” I tell him quietly. “They seem to be attached haphazardly, but his neurological system attaches enough for him to feel and move them, so it’s probably not all bad?”

Dad doesn’t look convinced, only nodding absently and inspecting Ray’s newly groomed wings. 

“HYDRA did this?” he asks. For a second, I could have sworn guilt flashes across his face, but then he glances up at me and I can see it was just worry. “Was it in an abandoned subway? Down by the water?”

“I...I don’t know. They had shifted to a warehouse by the water, when I got there… Dad, how do you know where HYDRA is?”

Dad’s face spasms minutely, before he says, “The warned us-at work, uh, on the job. You know, fixing power lines. Don’t wander too close to the water, be careful, you know.”

“Yeah,” I say, because it makes sense and I suddenly feel paranoid. “There was other kids there. That were-” I remember about the walls issue for a second, “Uh, like Ray and Star. Same situation. We couldn’t bring them all home, of course, but I should probably go back and, like, figure out a way to help them?”

Dad looks up. He’s seen pretty much all of Ray there is to see, including the bruising forming because of broken bones and his slightly underfed frame due to being a teen trying to make it in NYC alone. 

He leads me out of the room this time, outside to the fire escape. It creaks when we step out, and just before I go out I wonder what he’s doing, but then I understand. It’s too loud out here to overhear anything less than screaming, let alone us having a quiet conversation. 

“I’m proud of you,” Dad says, turning to me. I can suddenly see his slightly sad yet prideful expression. His eyes are starting to water. “You did so good, baby,” he practically whispers, pulling me into a hug, “You’re so much better than me.”

I hug Dad back, because of course I do. He hugs tighter than usual, practically lifting me off my feet.

“You’re so brave, sweetheart,” he says softly, “So kind.” I nod into his chest and hug him back just as tightly.

When he finally puts me down, his face is set in an odd way. “Baby, are you sure you can handle this?” he asks. Suddenly (actually, the feeling is recurring), I’m aware of how awesome my dad is. He’s not forcing me to stop, he’s not telling me that I should have told him, he’s just aware that it’s my life and that he’s just here to help. Can he help? Can I handle what I’ve taken on? Am I okay?

“Yeah, Dad,” I say, nodding firmly. It hits me that this has been one of the first times we’ve had a real heart-to-heart after mom...died. He mostly just goes to work, sleeps, showers, eats, or gives me concerned and/or suspicious looks from across the apartment. That, or he’s looking at me with this face on that I’ve gotten increasingly familiar with and looks suspiciously like sadness. (It’s usually when I’m cramming for tests, or eating while typing on my laptop, or looking through for cheap/good colleges, and he usually mutters about my wasted genius while having The Face on.) 

“Dad, I really think I’ve got this. I’ve got this more than anything else.”

Dad considers this. Then he gets an odd look on his face again, just a different one. “Is the electricity you or the suit?”

I laugh suddenly. Of course. “Oh, uh, me,” I say, “The suit just conducts the electricity.”

Dad squints at me. “How?” he asks finally, slowly.

“Oh, it’s actually really cool,” I say, starting into a long explanation of my skin’s ability to create and conduct electricity, and if it in the process chars itself, that’s fine, because it heals faster than normal anyways. It is joined by the usual sequel, How My Skin Is Less Vulnerable To Shocks, a five hundred page essay with scientific testing and backing from myself. 

Dad nods along as we sit outside on the fire escape (well, I sit, perched on the railing; Dad leans against the brick wall), letting me ramble. He’s usually like that; he just lets me get it all out before asking questions. Presuming he dares to ask questions or knows enough about the subject to know what to ask. The noises of the city surrounds us, including the fighting of the neighbors, a crying child, overly loud music, someone yelling memes (I yell a few back, get dramatic laughter), a hotdog stand vender yelling about the sweet deals at that particular stand, and a dog declaring war on a squirrel. It’s pretty cool, for a first post-mom serious conversation. 

Then I eventually run out of steam and we go inside, and I see Star lightly snoring on my sofa while Brooke fusses over soup on the stove and Petal fixes Star’s suit while it is still on her body. 

I would compare it to being pushed from within a sauna to somewhere in the Arctic Ocean, where Santa Claus would be if the entire thing wasn’t water (poor little small science child me, innocently learning about geography and the ocean, isn’t that cool, and stumbling across that fact). 

Petal looks up at me grimly. Their face has been stuck on that expression since we listened to that audio recording somewhere along seventeen million years ago. 

And then, when I’m trying to figure out how to respond, my phone rings in a way that Izzy is supposed to give to important and/or dangerous callers.


	18. Vermont, A Press Conference, and A Cute Girl

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The climax of Shay’s arc!!! Shay gets one last big battle, is stalked through four states, and crushes hard.
> 
> Triggers  
> Literally everything fam  
> Blood  
> Gore  
> Violence  
> Drugging  
> Memory loss  
> Internalized homophobia  
> Stalking

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This only took two weeks and five rewrites..... enjoy.....

I don’t wake up.

At least, I don’t. The Raven does. 

The Raven registers with what passes for surprise when you have no emotions that there are no still-healing injuries anywhere on her body. Usually, after a bad mission-and The Raven knows the last mission was bad, the way the handlers are looking at her tells her that-the damage is so severe from the beating afterwards that when she is put in the ice and her metabolism slows down, the damage is not completely healed by the time she comes out.

She doesn’t mind. The pain of defrosting quickly and without painkillers is enough on its own. 

Her limbs are on fire, her brain is trying it’s best to return from being actual ash following electrocution (essentially), and everyone is looking at her in that way she knows, distantly, means that she tried to escape.

(Escape-)  
(-have to-)  
(-pain-)  
(-escape?)  
(Waking-)  
(-glares-)

Everything is distant, really. Thoughts, annoyingly, included. Her feelings are so distant she can’t see them. The only sharp thing is her sensations, her sight and smell and touch and taste and hearing, all of which have been turned up to thirteen since forever. The Raven knows nothing else.

The Raven doesn’t know more than the handlers allow.

The briefing will be soon. She’ll know more then. Her mission, her target, relevant information. They always give her more information that The Asset (James-Winter-Soldier?-Bucky-Seargeant-) because The Asset kills and she infiltrates. She needs to know enough to blend. She finds it a stabbable offense to not have enough information, usually for her but if she doesn’t and ends up badly for it, her target usually is stabbed. (Maybe? Why did that thought-)

The Raven is touched.

The Raven does not flinch, but only because she was trained not to. 

The handler has touched her shoulder. He looks like someone (-Blake?-), someone she doesn’t know, at least right now, but she does know that his looks make her mental shields weaken just a little. 

As she was trained, The Raven takes in every detail of the man-boy (teenager? Young twenties?) without raising the slightest suspicion. Of Asian descent, probably East Asian. Judging by his complexion and the color under his eyes, he’s tired, stressed, and hasn’t been eating enough. There are metal cuffs around both of his wrists, which The Raven instantly categorizes as Bad (Potentially Harmful, specifically.) 

The other handlers are all males of European descent, with either brown or blond hair. The majority are muscular, more so than average, but some are just the average plus a lab coat instead of thirty percent body mass in pure flexing material. 

They are looking at the usual; the lab coats stare at screens and mutter to themselves and each other (how do I know these things), and the muscular ones stare very intensely at me. 

I straighten, not yet ready to step out of the cryo chamber, but my muscles cooperate enough to lean slightly upright. The technician starts running through tests.

“Stage one complete, starting stage two,” he announces while tapping a button. A needle automatically comes out of the wall of the cryo chamber, and I don’t flinch, but it’s a close thing. I don’t move a muscle when the needle enters my skin, but my eyes do close when the pain starts anew.

It’s a serum that’s supposed to essentially kick-start my cells. I think it must be at least partially adrenaline, because my heart and sweat glands pick up the pace as soon as the needle withdraws. 

It hurts. It always does. The pain is familiar, and almost comforting. 

It is also awful.

(A man pinning me in the snow-)  
(-a corpse-)  
(-screaming, someone outside the tent has to hear, please-)  
(“-doing to me?!”-)  
(“-ake!)  
(“Bl-”)  
(-man grabs me from behind-)  
(-nightdress tears-)  
(-a slap-)  
(A knife in my-)

It eventually ends. I stand, as is procedure. They do their assessment, the technicians fluttering around me like frantic birds around an unmoving boulder that happens to contain consciousness. 

They finally stop to get my feedback. The man stands three feet in front of me, shaking like a leaf and doing his best not to trip over his words. 

“Are-are your fatigue, hunger, or thirst levels sub-optimal?” he asks. 

I shake my head. I have not been given permission to speak. I can also function on this level of all of the above. Even though my head hurts a lot. 

“Are you in any unusual pain?”  
As I shake my head, I muse over the word “unusual”. Of course pain is to be expected, but for some reason I fixate on the choice of words.

The list goes on. One of the questions basically sums up to “are you feeling angry and/or murderous towards HYDRA?” and I automatically respond by shaking my head, even when my thoughts stick to that, as well.

(“Oh, you little-”)  
(-a man’s hot breath-)  
(Screaming-)  
(-of dread-)

Eventually, the stuttering man gets to the debrief.

“Here are your targets,” he says, showing me a piece of paper with names and other basic information at the top and pictures at the bottom. The man is in a color photo, which I for some reason feel discomfort towards, and he has blond hair, a pair of sharp jaw and cheekbones, and bright blue eyes. All distinctive. His face is screwed up in a grimace, with one hand over a bleeding wound at his core. His other hand holds a shield in red, white, and blue with a star in the middle. He seems to be aiming it as a weapon towards the person taking the picture. His dressed in a uniform of red, white, and blue, and-

(“Why are you dressed like the American flag?”)

“You are not to infiltrate, just to eliminate him. Do it as publicly as possible.”

I would have looked surprised, a lifetime ago. I’m not usually sent out on assasinary missions, but infiltration and then assinary missions. This is a straight up hit-and-go, which is usually The Asset’s job. (James-Bucky-Winter-?)

Why would The Asset not be able to do this hit? 

The man is not old enough to be a part of The Asset’s old life, he’s only in his early twenties. Maybe he looks similar to someone…?

“His name is Steve Rogers,” the man says.

(Bucky, curled up-)  
(“He was my Stevie-”)

“He’s a part of a group of powerful enemies called the Avengers. If you take out the other Avengers, you will get privileges, the more so the better.”

That means food. Water. Health care beyond the basics. Less pain. Less shady guards. Safety. 

I nod, showing that I understand. He nods back, nervously, showing me pictures of these Avengers.

A man with brown hair in a close-to-military cut and purple and black leather all over his body (humorous, European descent, dark past possible). A man, one shot showing him wearing a bright red and gold flying suit and one in a fancy business suit (Italian descent, cocky, covering up for trauma) (a flash of a smile, dark sunglasses, blue light reflecting-). The Target, slightly less bloody this time. A large green man, as tall as a large building, with anger and rubble overflowing from him. Next to the green man is a regular man wearing a lab coat and a scowl, walking down a dark street. 

A woman with red hair, beating up HYDRA agents.

(-”Raven!”)  
(“I’m going to teach you-”)  
(-”maus, perle, spider, they are the same, my-”)  
(James, standing next to a small version of the woman, teaching her to punch-)  
(-a spider has to have venom, darling,” James says-)  
(“Like this,” Winter says gruffly, correcting-)  
(Flipping James, the little spider’s eyes wide-)

I carefully take in everything about her. My head hurts again. 

Smooth movements reminiscent of my own. Eyes communicating knowledge and trauma. Scars, one that catches my eye in particular (-forced to slice the small spiders’ arm-)(-love?). A black tactical suit, used mostly for spywork, but certainly works in combat. Red hair, loose but not affecting her at all. 

Little spider, my mind provides. 

I really want it to shut up. Unfortunately, it does not. 

(Protect.)

I nod again, my face unchanged. The handler studies my face without comment before moving on. 

“The mission is in New York City,” the man says. (A sewer, crowded sidewalk, microwave, hoodie, superheroes, a tall building with an A on the side, a gunshot.) “Return here within the next two days. You will have supervision.”

Supervision, not helpers. Silent shadows making sure I stay in line instead of helpers. 

Oh, I see. This is a suicide mission. What else do you do with weapons that are no longer needed than dispose of them? And a public killing of a man that is clearly important? Asking for trouble. I doubt it will work-I have been running from the police since...a long time ago, it doesn’t matter. It does make me a lot more paranoid even than usual, however, becuase I have both a suicide mission and supervisors to make sure I actually die on it.

Ich werde die kleine spinne zumindest nicht verletzen. 

The technician steps away and in comes my main handler. It is the tired Asian teenager.

“对不起,” he says. I do not understand why he would be sorry, or why he would say it specifically in Chinese, or really much at all. 

He takes my hand (a girl with brown skin and a coffee in-hand, smiling with her hand in mine-) (fear) (-if caught?), gently guiding me to step out of the cryo chamber. The pain from defrosting has left, and I am not left at my usual levels of functionality fresh out of the ice. “Come,” the teenager says, his tired eyes glancing around. He starts to lead me away from the cryo room, with the accompaniment of seven armed guards that I ignore. 

That’s foolish. I would take out any threats. 

“他们会试图杀死你,” he comments. He does not specify who will be trying to kill me, so I assume it’s everyone. 

(A good tactic, really.) 

I nod at him. His hand tightens around my own. 

We are at a large steel door. He is given passage by a guard standing next to it, holding a machine gun and a key card. 

Outside is snow, some concrete, a lot of wind, and a car.

“Drive that until you find another car. Switch as much as possible. Be discreet,” he says, as if I don’t know what to do. There’s a pause. He doesn’t let go of my hand, so I assume I am not allowed to move. The teen just stares out into the snow. 

“Please come back,” he says.

I nod again, unsure of the possibility existing but willing to try, and he slowly lets go of my hand. As I move out into the cold (temperature indicated somewhere in the US, near Canada perhaps), his gaze flicks between me and the outside he is clearly not allowed to exist within. I nod at him one more time, sure we would both be punished for speaking on my part, before getting into the car. 

It’s a relatively worn down but still functional car. But with the current snow and the possibility of a storm, that’s not a guarantee. My uniform is an alright insulator, but I will have to trade it out for something less suspicious before long and I’m not sure if my heightened temperature will be able to keep up with a blizzard and a light hoodie. 

I start to drive following all the protocols. Conveniently, a helicopter takes off at the same time I leave, so I presume they are at least part of my “supervisors” and start tracking the flight of the craft while driving. 

I clearly wasn’t left with a lot of memories after the chair, and they didn’t provide me with a lot of information. But this is clearly a medium sized base somewhere in the Northern US, and if the license plates of the car are to be believed (not a guarantee), specifically Vermont. 

It starts snowing after an hour of driving in Vermont (confirmed by a sign on the side of the road) and I choose to use the flurries as cover for my clothes and car switch. The cashier is so sleep deprived I was surprised she noticed my existence. 

I leave my last car behind in the position of the stolen one with the keys in the ignition, and a note containing a vague apology. 

That is not protocol. 

The next car has a radio. I cautiously turn it on, only to be met with the most garishly loud country music to exist ever. 

“-AND A COLD BEER ON A FRIDAY NIGHT, OHHHHHHHHHHHH, MY SWEET GAL BY MY SIDE-”

I turn down the volume very quickly. Once my eardrums are not within exploding levels of decibels, I start flipping through channels.

“-this is a seventies and eighties throwback, ladies and gentlemen-”  
Some garishly loud guitars that don’t sound like actual guitars.  
“What’s the difference between a large pizza and a juggler?” A pause. “One can feed a family of four!”  
Soft piano fills the car. My hand freezes on the dial.

(“Maus, not like that! Look, follow my lead, perle-”)  
(Tiny hands over larger hands, pressing down on keys slowly-)  
(-laughter-)

My head hurts. 

I keep the channel on. 

And that’s how I drive through three states; non-stop piano music, various stolen cars, and a headache. 

New York City is loud. And bright. And crowded. And adorned with a lot of litter and advertisements. 

(Walking down a crowded-)  
(-Central Park, the grass-)  
(Microwaved-)  
(-superheroes?)

I ditch the car quickly, taking a second to mourn the loss of piano music that was so comforting. Then I head out. Dodging security cameras is surprisingly hard, and a group of teenagers whisper when they see me walking by (something about a sewer and me climbing out of it?), but I overall avoid too much attention.

I head for the large tower with an A on it under the help of a sign in a subway. I’m outside the tower in ten minutes. 

I cover my face with my thrift hoodie, sit in a cafe opposite the building, and start doing research. This is the place they are the most likely to show up, but I should check for any public appearances in the next 24 hours.

I find a press conference. Stark Industries is doing a press conference about the Avengers in order to update the public on something undisclosed. It’s in around three hours. It is also very exclusive, in the middle of an office building (meaning no windows to shoot through), and I have no known allies to help me infiltrate. It is only on the third floor, but I doubt I could scale the building and break in without gaining suspicion. I guess I could make a distraction, then slip in, and wait for my moment? Or cause a large enough distraction that the Avengers would be called in?

Casualties would be needed for that. (No. No. Nonononononononononononononono-)

So. Infiltrating, then dragging the Avengers somewhere more public. A street or a square, maybe? There is a square directly outside the building nice enough for me to die in. 

(No hurting the little spider-)

I start researching the Targets. They all-with the exception of “Iron Man”, or Tony Stark, who fights with a metal suit, and “Hawkeye”, who has very little information online but for the fact that he is a very good shot-are in some way in the possession of superhuman ability. I also find out I will potentially be battling an actual god-apparently those showed up a bit ago. Crazy. Also apparently, there’s something called radiation that for some reason turns people into large angry green versions of themselves. 

The future is BS.

I’m interrupted by an employee coming up to my table. “Miss, if you’re not going to order something I’m going to have to ask you to leave,” he says. His apron is in a garish green and he looks kind of dead inside. 

“Of course,” I say amicably, “I’ll have a black coffee.”

Which is the first thing I could think of that a cafe from the future would still manage to have. If they don’t have coffee I’m staging a revolution. 

The employee turns around with a nod and comes back a minute later with a hot, pitch black cup of coffee. I take a sip as he walks away with his payment (which came out of my emergency money for this mission), and I feel my soul leaving my body.

(Pink lipstick-)  
(-silver spoon-)  
(-curly hair.)  
(-laughs-)  
(-dolphins.)  
(-service dog-)  
(-black shoes-)  
(-a red rag-)  
(“Hi!”)  
(“-King’s Bakery-”)

I swallow forcefully and put the cup back on the table. I decide to go back to my phone because sorting out why King’s Bakery gave me a headache is not part of the mission, and I need to figure out how not to die.

Or should I even be avoiding dying (Blake’s corpse-)(Mama’s screams-)(-burned bodies-)(-mass grave-)? It’s not like having one less assassin (screaming, yelling-)(“Please!”)(Please, no-)(-a knife-)(Handguns-) in the world is a huge loss. 

I stare into my balck coffee and think.

HYDRA wants me to complete this mission. HYDRA might be failing. HYDRA wants me to die on this mission. HYDRA sent a strike team, who will probably kill me if I leave the mission. 

What’s my goal here? Live? Die? Become a fugitive? Disappear? 

Why is there even a strike team? What went so badly with my last mission to both leave me this way within seven hours of the cryo chamber and get a strike team on me? 

(-breaking out a gaggle of children-)  
(-freedom-)  
(-Central Park’s warm grass-)  
(A bottle of whiskey-)  
(Tony Stark-)  
(-superheroes?)  
(Dolphins-)  
(Cute girl-)  
(-illegal.)

Okay, that’s probably important. What relation to Tony Stark did I have and why was it important enough for them immediately turn to “kill him and all his teammates?” 

(Also why was I looking as dolphins and cute girls?)

Friendship? Was my last mission to take out the Avengers and then I somehow got soft during infiltration and rebelled? Do I need to take that into account somehow?

Maybe I could pretend I haven’t realised this and show up at the press conference itself? I mean, if HYDRA wants to discard me, they’re going to get a show. What’s better than “fighting” superheroes before winking at the camera and making a dramatic closing sentence to my life?

I quickly hack into invites to the press conference. Then I try to find out what on Earth reporters look around now. Should I go for business casual? Black tie with seven knives hidden underneath? Casual with a notepad and pen, maybe a microphone? 

I eventually decide to just make this convincing. I find out who was newly hired and/or has never met the Starks before, write an apology note in advance with an accompaniment of a few hundred dollar bills, put it all into an envelope while ignoring the very obvious HYDRA agents in the café, and then set out for my newest and most gentle kidnapping and perhaps a shopping trip.

The woman is apparently one of the few Asian-Americans who have made it within her company, which adds fifty dollars to the envelope, and she is also very unsuspecting. All I have to do is wait for her to leave for the conference (she is blessedly early), abduct her with a rag dipped in chloroform (she’ll wake up in a few hours, safe and sound within her apartment), take her mic, press ID, and recording device, then make a discreet exit minus one envelope. An alarm will probably be raised eventually, but there is no trail, and it’s close enough to the event itself that a replacement won’t be sent. 

With my prior knowledge of the building's layout from the internet searching from the café, a fancy dress as conservative as I could find for being relatively blendable (made up with by my high heels), and my stolen supplies, I set out. I ignore any yelled comments on my appearance that I am forced to endure due to my lack of vehicle (Ms. Lihua Chan, the reporter I currently “am”, uses public transport) and do the same for the idiot in tactical gear following me from the rooftops and being VERY LOUD. 

I show up to the conference, flash my ID and a polite smile, and I’m in. There’s two minutes and twenty seven seconds left until the scheduled time for start, so I pretend to be in a rush and move things along. Thankfully, Ms. Chan was the only one sent, so I don’t have to play at her personality so much. 

The conference room is situated with the press in the back of the room, facing a stage where presumably the Avengers will be. It is loud enough that I have to concentrate on not wincing. Ms. Virginia Potts is talking to a bodyguard in the front row, so I duck behind a few reporters in case she recognises me and get myself situated in the third row. 

Ms. Potts is gone within a minute, and with another one comes Tony Stark striding into the room and a hush before an explosion of sound. He is followed by the rest of the Avengers, all in full costume. Presumably, Mr. Stark was left out because the weight of the suit would probably break through to the base floor. 

The team all sit in a line behind a table with water, paper, pens, a microphone each, and probably notecards. Mr. Stark doesn’t even glance at any of it before picking up the mic in front of him. 

“Hello, ladies and gentlemen,” rings throughout the room. I suppress a surprised jolt, glancing at the sources, which seam to be black boxes in each corner of the ceiling. “As you all know, we are the Avengers. What you better not know is why you’re here.”

There’s a low thrum of laughter which he lets die out before continuing. 

“We’re here to address the terrorist group calling themselves HYDRA. If you take a look to the screen behind me, you can see their stupid octopus logo.”

The logo does indeed show up via hologram. It’s in bloodred. 

(A scream-)  
(-she begs-)  
(Blood running down my hands-)

“This organisation has been hanging around since Cap’s time, good old War World Two,” Mr. Stark continues, giving a sweeping glance over the audience that doesn’t snag on my face. “They’re basically Nazis, just version 2.0.”

(Chain-link-)  
(-staring him down-)  
(Blake coughs-)  
(-working-)  
(-screaming-)  
(-smoke.)  
(Guns-)

My finger tighten around my mic, hanging by my side. 

“The Avengers have made a point of fighting HYDRA since day two, because we were busy on day one,” Mr. Stark continues with an award-winning smile. There’s more polite laughter. “And now, we’re proud to announce this bit of information: we’ve taken out the most powerful bases in the world, and have extracted agents from every government worldwide. We’re proud to say HYDRA is on its last legs, and also this-”

Mr. Stark pauses, a daredevil look in his eyes.

“Come and get us.”

I decide I should probably shoot now, in order not to miss my window and arouse suspicion. The bullet hits the back wall, where Mr. Stark’s head was two seconds before he took another breath and tilted his head. 

The reporters surrounding me start yelling and screaming, and the Avengers are instantly on their feet. I, as gently as possible, force my way out of the room, sprinting down a hallway while unpredictably zigzagging before crashing through a window. The two-inch-thick glass hurts, but whatever. 

I land with a perfect duck and roll, shooting a HYDRA agent who got in my way because I have spite and an excuse for it. 

The square is seven hundred and twenty three feet away, far enough that the crowds didn’t hear the gunshots and therefore didn’t run, so I start sending out more warning shots. They get close enough to be concerning, but they won’t land unless an idiot jumps in front of my gun. But it has to be close enough to get the Avengers involved. To sweeten the deal for them, I start crushing various things with my inhuman strength. 

Crushed mailbox, getting close to shooting a running man, beat up a sign, shatter some glass, kick a police officer between the legs while ducking a bullet, throw a police officer out of the way, you know, general mayhem. 

All I have to do is prove that the police can’t handle me, so here we go.

I end up with a bullet to the leg and two more conveniently shot strike team members before the Avengers show up. 

Captain America (“-dressed like a flag?”) is first, with the little spider behind him and Iron Man scouting from the air. When he sees me, he jolts. I give a salute. Hawkeye and the extremely angry green giant are not far behind.

Iron Man lands clunkily in front of me. I dodge another bullet. 

“Shay!” he calls, his voice strange from filtering through the suit.

(I do know him.) (Shay?)

“Iron Man,” I reply, before shooting Captain America.

The plan goes awry from there. 

“Again?” Little spider asks me (“Natalia, why-). Natalia inspects me. “Why do you keep shooting him?”

(When did I shoot him before?)

And then every single remaining strike team member gets their butt in gear and launches themselves into the square in order to try to beat up the Avengers, which seems foolish to me. 

I survey the scene with an unimpressed gaze. The square is littered with cute little planters and flower beds and trees that I am sure are all about to be squashed, with the majority of it being made out of concrete for crowds to walk on, and the place is lined with stores (the majority of which are boutiques, small restaurants, and tiny little mom and pop businesses). The buildings are slightly shorter around here (by like a floor, mind you), and it gives the place a quaint feel.

It’s probably all going to be rubble after this, which is unfortunate. 

The strike team members have formed a perimeter around the square, blocking off all roads and other major exits, like fire escapes, mostly by emptying machine gun clips into the area surrounding said exit paths. 

Idiots.

The Avengers' reactions are varied at their new surrounded position. Little Spider (now big, she looks very intimidating, I’m proud) looks mostly unimpressed. Iron Man ignores this all to stare at me like a frozen-in-shock kicked puppy, only glancing around occasionally. The large angry green one is roaring and throwing his overly large fists around (it’s quite amusing to watch a strike team member topple like a bowling pin to his wrath). Captain American Flag starts throwing his shield around and looking righteous. Hawkeye just climbs a building, probably to get a good angle to shoot at, not a care in the world. 

I take out a handgun when the Black Ghost lands in front of me.

Ghost is the one that’s pulled out when they need a public and gruesome killing to prove a point or teach a lesson. She gets the most use around wars and when countries are posturing, which is essentially always. She’s been brainwashed past the point of breaking, and at this point I think she just has either mentally retreated so far she might as well be brain dead or just has radically changed so much that she now enjoys bloody, awful killings. 

She also loves playing with her food, which at this point is me.

“You never miss, Raven,” Ghost says teasingly, twirling a knife in the hand that isn’t pointing a gun at me. “Let alone miss and run.”

“Did you watch me drive here from Vermont?” I ask politely, getting my own hand guns out. One is pointed at her, the other is pointed at the ground until I have another target to focus my attention on. “That must have been riveting.”

She shoots, looking disappointed in my bantering skills. I just drop and bounce back up, completely unaffected, while taking my own shot.

She’s slower than me. The bullet hits her in the knee (I really don’t need her getting away from me and beating up any one stupid enough to get in her way and incompetent enough to die instantly), shattering the thing. Unfortunately, this is temporary; I can only see the mess of red and white for around forty seconds before the tissues heal back over. The only difference is that she now has an extra blood stain spot. 

“That was slower than usual,” I comment as she growls at me, annoyed. 

She takes out her knives. I know the ones; she uses them to butcher up her prey slowly. Apparently I’m Enemy Number One now. Yay. 

“Welcome to the real world, little birdie,” Ghost says, “Hope you’re ready to leave it.”

She lunges forward. 

(The Medic giving me a sad smile before she leaves for a mission she never comes back from, muttering, “I hope you make it to the real world, little birdie,” to me.) (The top of her file said eliminated, the cause of death is listed under heroes conflict.) (She threw herself off a building after faking being cornered.) (Things hurt more after that.)

I wonder if things will hurt more after this. My head already does, and my nose is bleeding, so possibly I’m dying. That would probably be very painful. 

I take a step to the side. She flies right past me. I take the opportunity during her enraged turn around to snap her wrist and knock her off her feet with a sweeping kick. She returns the favor my trying to stab me in the eye by throwing her knife. Unfortunately, the hand she threw with was the wrist I just snapped (probably a desperate move to realign the bones and make the hand useful before she dropped the knife), so it missed and simply pinned my shirt to the ground. I go to yank the knife out while she realigns the bones in her wrist, kneeing her in the crotch while I’m at it. 

By the time Ghost’s bones are set (if she doesn’t quickly, they heal out of place), I have one of her lightly poisoned knives and an advantage for a few more seconds. 

Ghost swipes at me with her good arm, catching me with her knife. Unfortunately, the edge of said knife is tainted with a combo of drugs I never figured out (but did and do understand that they work pretty well to slowly put you unconscious while she plays with you). I have no idea if the dose I just picked up is big enough to affect my super-fast metabolism, but if it is, I need to end this quickly.

That’s when another idiot joins the party, because we needed more of those. 

It’s a girl with black, kinky curly hair, a flowing blue sweater that is very easy to grab in a fight, light blue jeans, and a confident step. 

She feels familiar. Like warm black coffee, or pink lipstick, or dolphins, or the thought of potential arrest. 

I watch her collide with a HYDRA agent, see her use a motion I would describe as a gymnastics routine to land several hits, judo throw him, steal his gun, and then knock him unconscious with the butt of said gun. 

The HYDRA agents clearly have no idea who the girl is, and I don’t think the Avengers are doing much better. 

And then.

“Rifle! Longing!” I stop when I hear the beginning to the Words from the Ghost. “Shattered! Nest! Rebirth!” My hands fly to my ears in a desperate attempt to block out the sound. (No.) (No.) (No.) “One! Nine! Twenty-three!” (No!) “Frozen!” (No…?) “Return! Needle!”

It’s like having my brain be hit by a semi after it was already beaten up by being run over by a train every few months for the last seventy years. The Words are like a cage being slammed down around my mind, forcing my actions to reflect HYDRA’s and not my own. There’s also the painful addition of a temporary memory block.

(Seventy…)

(Needle!)

(HYDRA.)

(Mission? Targets...Avengers?)

(Little Spider!)

(Comply.)

I’m frozen, standing in the middle of a square. My eyes take in a girl fighting an agent, the Targets, who are also battling several agents. Ghost retreats from my side, grinning smugly-as usual-and watching me.

(Comply.)

(Targets.)

This is a foolish plan. These agents are far less dangerous than me. 

Iron Man, one of the Targets, is staring at me in horror, clearly waiting for my next action. As is the Black Widow, but she is much more subtle about it.

My memory is a pile of fractured glass, all reflecting each other and making me bleed at the touch, but I manage to focus enough to understand that they have a sniper (an archer, he’s an archer) up a building to my left, and-

I’m firing before I really think properly, and I hear the clatter of a bow being dropped as an arrow hits my side. I don’t yank it out-that would accelerate bleeding-but I do snap it in half so I can maniver more, even with the thing sticking out of my side. 

I hit the Hulk (he’s green, okay, why not) first of the Avengers because he is a Target and also a Threat. I dodge a large green fist, ignoring the side with an arrow in it, and shoot. The neck doesn’t seem to be working, and then I try shooting towards the heart, and then the legs in a hope to slow him down.

Nothing so much as breaks the skin.

The Black Ghost (why is she here, we never work together) laughs maniacally. It is unclear why. “Okay, let’s wrap this up!” she calls. “I want everyone in lines, Raven!”

I try a knife next, noticing a knife wound that I don’t remember getting. 

(Ghosts stabs me-) (-stitching up the wound, Ghost’s knives always leave marks like this-)

(Ghost’s knives. Stab marks. What-)

The Black Widow (Target) is yelling at me in Russian while continuing to attack HYDRA agents. Iron Man (Target) is doing the same, just in English. They both are yelling about emotions and memories and me, all of which are things that hurt. 

“Please!” Iron Man yells as an agent attempts to out-shoot the suit and fails. I try to stab the Hulk, to no effect. “Remember! You came to my tower! You were a translator! You stayed late-Pepper picked you up-” he’s cut off by his own repulsor blast to deter another agent. I roll away from a punch from Hulk, the concrete behind me shattered.“She brought you down to my workshop with Spark!” He dodges a punch, which I think was just instinct, and I’m on my feet again. 

“Пожалуйста, вам нужно запомнить,” the Widow says as soon as Iron Man is busy with a horde of agents (there seems to be more coming the longer we stay here). “Вы нежны и добры, когда можете пощадить это, и вы защитили меня.” 

“Пожалуйста,“ she repeats.

There is a girl who is not a Target but civilian. She is also quite effectively taking out agents. She also is very confused, if her body language and extended looks in my direction are a hint.

(Dolphins-)

My head starts to hurt, and there is a thin trickle of blood from my nose. I don’t bother to wipe it away; that would show weakness. 

“Shay?” she asks. Her hair-black, extremely curly-is yanked by an agent behind her, which produces a strange sense of rage in defense of the girl. 

In fact, I’m getting strange amounts of emotions surrounding these people. The man in the metal suit produces a feeling of fondness yet wariness. The woman with red hair (little spider-) is protectiveness and warmth. And the girl... I don’t know, I haven’t felt this within my current memories… Warmth, as well, but...different…?

(Dolphins-pink lipstick-black coffee-smile-BBQ-worry-protect-fun-yes-good-)

The girl stares at me again. Is my name Shay? Iron Man called me that, too. 

(Evaluate.) (HYDRA status: powerful, dangerous.) (Emotions: compromised-)

“Raven!” Black Ghost yells at me. “Cancel evaluation! Your orders!”

(Evaluation ended.)

The girl in the blue sweater looks at me for a long time. The Avengers are less able to because they are gathering the most attention from agents and are trying to defend themselves. 

I hit the Hulk again, this time using a machine gun taken from an agent Captain America threw into a building who is now thoroughly unconscious. He mostly just roars angrily. 

(Hulk is-)

Hakweye looks at me from above, his bow aimed at me. He’s ready to shoot, but hesitating because of my sudden change in body language and actions. He is older; I wonder if he has a daughter my physical age that fuels his hesitance, or his character. 

“Shay,” the girl says softly, her voice sounding like safety, “You don’t have to have them control you. It’s okay.”

I don’t think she fully understands how they control me. If this was just fear tactics, I would already be gone. But with the combination of the Chair, the Words, and fear tactics, I’m either unwilling or unable to go all the time. 

I take the Widow and the girl, at gunpoint, the center of the square. They both go willingly with only a traded glance, their eyes sad and understanding. Iron Man follows the example. 

The others are harder to convince. The Captain battles me with Hawkeye as his backup (he manages to hit me twice) and the Hulk as a soundtrack until I manage to steal his shield and hit him over the head with it. He remains conscious, which is quite a feat with the strength I used to hit him, but he’s dazed enough that I can haul him next to Iron Man, who supports his weight on one side without question, his gaze following me. 

I then scale the building Hawkeye is on by flipping on top of a car and then to a balcony and then climbing a drainage pipe. Hawkeye, by the time I get there, is three buildings over. 

After a chase amounting to three more arrow wounds, some blood loss, and three minutes and twenty nine seconds (impressive for the Hawk because of my increased speed), Hawkeye is also told at gunpoint to head down. I am given a bright smile, a flirtatious response, and then a willing follower. (I suspect that chase was just a bit of fun for him.)

The Hulk I am unsure has the capacity to sit still. I obviously can’t bring him in at gunpoint; he just reacts to danger by throwing a fist at him. Maybe if I pin him?

An agent gets thrown into the side of a building be the Hulk. A bit of debris falls on top of their unconscious body. 

I would need to generate a lot of weight to overcome his strength, and the angle would have to be exact. Of course, the only thing applicable is a building-

“Raven!” Ghost calls from down below, stabbing the Hulk with her knives with a roar. “Get down here!”

I climb down the building quickly, some deep down part of me thankful for not having to topple a building on someone. 

By the time I get down to the concrete, the Hulk’s roars have quit. Within two minutes, he’s unconscious. Ghost leaves him where he is, guiding me to an area in front of the lined up Avengers and the girl. The agents surrounding the perimeter have also rounded up all the civilians that hid instead of ran at the gunshots and have also lined them up.

“Hey, Stark, armor off,” Ghost says with a manic grin (it’s trademarked) in place. Mr. Stark (-Stark-) (Spider-Man-) (-smile-) does so with only a second of hesitation. I note that the glowing piece in the chest of his suit it not part of the metal suit but part of his chest. 

“Shoot them,” Ghost instructs. 

(Children in a line-) (Gunshots.)

I hesitate. The small, emotional, hurt part of myself that is allowed out as the Raven protests so strongly that I’m taking the points it presents into account. These people make me feel things. They’ve followed me essentially willingly. Ghost is kind of a jerk, why should I listen to her and her stupid crew cut?

The Captain speaks, only partially recovered from his gunshot wound but standing on his own.

“Shay, you don’t know me,” he starts, which in my opinion is not a good way to talk someone down from shooting you.

“But I know Bucky.”

My hand stops. (Buck-) (“Sergeant?”) (James-) (-Winter-) (Bucky!) A rush of protectiveness and warmth. 

“My name is Steven Grant Rogers.” (“My little Stevie-”) (“Government experimentation-”) (“-always in a fight-”) (“His Ma-”) (“Stevie’ll get us out, doll-”) 

(Stevie?) (Steve?)

“I want to help Bucky, and I want to help you.”

(“Help, please-”) (“-always use some help, doll-”) (“Help-”)  
(“C’mon, maus, let me help-”) (“Perle, let him help-”)

My pro-con mentality of the Raven starts debating my memories, their worth, and if I shoot this guy in the next thirty seconds. The little emotional part of me tries to hit Raven when Raven is myself and also doesn’t have a body. Ghost is shaking her head at me and watching carefully. (Danger.)

“I don’t know what’s going on with you, but I need you to try and think for yourself.”

Raven is not good at that, and doesn’t have the capacity to do that right now. The tiny little part of myself that is free, not as bad but not great. I presume he wants me to think about freedom and stuff, because he’s kind of dressed like it, but I’m not completely against it, which surprises me. 

“Please try.”

Finally, my hand decides that Ghost gave an order, that Ghost is my handler, and therefore represents the wishes of HYDRA, so I should probably be shooting. 

But the man knows Bucky.

I try to take control of my left arm and hand, and I manage to abort the attempt to make a shot. Tony’s eyes widen, and the Widow’s and the girl’s narrow with understanding.

The girl walks right up to me calmly, glancing at Ghost when her gun is suddenly focused on her chest. A bolt of fear rushes through me to see the Raven categorize her as a threat and prepared to shoot. 

(Protect.)

(No!)

My arm swings toward the girl in a perfect angle to shoot, but then I jerk it away so hard the gun flies out of my hand. 

Ghost laughs exasperatedly. “Seriously? So soon?” she stops amusedly watching me try to kill people and moves again. “C’mon, I was having fun!”

She taps her hand against her chin, unconcerned as I continue to battle with my own body. I must be very entertaining. 

The girl walks forward until she’s standing a foot away from me. I want to shout at her to move, to back up, but all that comes from my mouth is a panicked, garbled version of ‘away’. 

“Shay, it’s okay,” she says, her face soft and kind of sad. Telegraphing all of movements, she takes the knife from my hand and calmly throws it away (in Ghosts’ direction, in fact, it hits her in the leg) (Brooke is suspiciously good with a knife). “You’re okay. I’m Brooke, remember?”

“How are they controlling you, Shay?”

Ghost laughs annoyedly, the bloody knife from her now-healing leg in her hand, pointing at Brooke. “That’s Raven, sweety. Assassin, murderer, just the same as me,” Ghost says teasingly. The knife flies from her mind in slow motion, like the world slowed down specifically because Ghost was taunting Brooke and trying to kill her. “Your friend doesn’t exist. You were probably just an acquaintance while she tried to get into that one’s bed.” She points to Mr. Stark. I almost threw up from the memories. (Forced calm-) (Howard.) (-no-) (Please-)

My hand flies up like I physically yanked it with a rope-jerky, inaccurate, but vaguely functional. I’m exhausted, mentally, with blood beginning to pour down my face again. My vision is beginning to cloud, and my body buzzes-Ghost’s poisoned knives are starting to kick in (I know the pattern of the knife wound on my side). It hurts. 

(The man-) (-Howard.) (-hurts-) (-no!) 

The knife has gone through my hand; I didn’t have enough dexterity to catch it. Blood is beginning to drip to the ground, and Ghost is smiling like a maniac (still).

“This is new,” she comments. “I’ve seen hesitance, imperfection, but never treason.”

I shoot before she can manage to give an order for my death or take me out herself. The bullet goes through her eye, just like I wasn’t trained. Quick, practically painless, and very distinguishable. Everyone who went through what Ghost and I did deserves a quick death, even if they now act like Ghost does. 

(HYDRA betrayed.) (Reconsidering goals.) (Goals: minimize casualties. Take out HYDRA agents.)

And then, just as I calmly flip another handgun into my right hand and as the civilians in front of me flinch, the memory block from the Words breaks. The memories almost push me off my feet with the tsunami of overstimulation and pain. 

My world narrows, in that second, to the girl in front of me.

To Brooke.

She’s pretty, my malnourished, wounded, going into hypovolemic shock brain thinks. I can only focus on the flush of her face, the curl of her hair, the cocoa brown of her eyes. The freckles across her face like the stars of every galaxy, the small scar running through her lip. The natural shade of pink of her lips, the roundness to her cheeks, the brown of her skin against her black hair.

I don’t have enough brain function to remember that these thoughts are illegal and lead to chain link fences and hunger and tired and the soldier and machine guns and cold. 

I reach upward, to Brooke, to her face and her hair and her cute freckles and the illegal thoughts, and she looks at me weird but lets it happen. My vision starts to blur and I don’t know if it’s from me being in the process of passing out or crying. 

My blurry world expands to the lines of people, and suddenly their faces are overlapped with those long dead. The HYDRA agents are the soldiers with guns and red armbands. 

(I will not be them.)  
(No.)

I move to shoot Ghost almost automatically, maybe out of anger or spite only to meet the cheshire cat smile on her face that promises pain and a bullet of her own. Because apparently shooting her in the eye isn’t good enough. 

Fortunately, Ghost’s aim has never been as good as my own or Winter’s. It’s why she sticks with knives, and also why she shot me in the shoulder instead of the throat. Meaning, I am probably not going to bleed out. Unfortunately, she hit me in the left shoulder, meaning my left and dominant hand/arm is not completely useless. 

My mind eliminates several combat moves that need two hands are replace them with modified versions or other options. 

The fight is fast, deadly, and pure instinct. Punch duck kick dodge swipe block grab knee swipe knife punch kick backflip retreat.

Ghost stands, one of her knives stained red (dang, now I have an even higher dose). She’s panting slightly, and her smile is gone. I can’t figure out how to approach safely without being stabbed again. 

I end up tackling her. I use my good arm to pin her by the neck from behind and then knee her in the crotch while simultaneously pinning her further to the ground. Ghost does her best to get me off her, bucking and biting and hair pulling, but I just calmly hold still while I hear Brooke and Little Spider approaching in the background. 

Ghost slips past my weak arm just as Brooke gets within range. My heart skips a beat, because what if Brooke-but then Brooke reacts by smoothly breaking Ghost’s wrist and pinning her down wither her own weight.

For some reason, this gets me flustered. 

“Black Ghost,” I say, like I am praying to the ancestors (incense-) (-bow.). “I’m sorry.”

Natalie puts a gun against Ghost’s forehead and right over her heart and politely tells her to stand in the most deadpan fashion I can remember. I am rolled away by Brooke, who then switches to using one hand to keep me from sagging to the ground (the world is spinning and blurry) and the other to keep Ghost under control. 

“Why Black Ghost?” Brooke whispers to me, probably in an effort to keep me conscious. I decide to humor her, mostly because she’s looking at me really cutely and I can’t resist. 

“Just Ghost is a SHIELD killer,” I mutter. “Wouldn’t do if we got the two confused. Also, because it’s cooler maybe?”

Okay, not my most intelligent line. 

“What?” Brooke and Natalia say at the same time, in completely different tones. Brooke sounds like I lost her completely, just confused. Little Spider sounds outraged.

“Yeah. She’s this, like, teen. Started young. Takes people out and disappears,” I say, approximately because my words are beginning to slur. My body is only kind of functional and entirely painful. 

There’s a man’s face hovering over me now. (Howard-) Through the spinning and nausea and the general cotton that is my brain currently, I can tell it’s Mr. Stark.

I groan. Stupid blood loss and poisoning. 

Brooke starts to sing in Spanish, something soft and nonsensical. My brain isn’t online enough to translate the words. 

(Mama sings gently-) (Piano notes-) (Letting the music wash over me-)

I relax all my muscles unconsciously. Natalia makes a small surprised sound, understanding the importance, but otherwise keeps to the goal. Hawkeye is helping the Little Spider. 

Iron Man moves after saying something, punching Ghost. She’s probably dead now.

Anyway, Brooke. 

Cute. 

With that thought, I pass out for the first time in, like, two whole days with a blur of sound and color and the concern of a cute girl.


	19. Disaster Bisexuals, Hospital Visits, and A Whole Lot Of Blushing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hi!!! Soooo sorry for the wait! I was sick for a bit in there and kind of unsure where I wanted to take this chapter, so it took a while. Anyway, some long awaited fluff is in this chapter, and will steadily increase from Shay’s POV. (Spark’s climax is approaching, so sorry.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Triggers  
> Like everything from the last chapter plus  
> Panic attacks  
> Blood  
> Gore

I am stress cooking. This is new, because usually I am stress baking and then stress eating; it is actively enabled as a habit because my family owns a bakery. But with two of my friends unconscious and with a new set of fluffy wings each, I’m making a simple soup on the stovetop of Spark’s apartment. Stepping over a pile of papers (with was looks suspiciously like overdue bills on top), a stack of metals and a matching pile of machine parts (I assume they come from Spark, maybe Bryn or Ember stayed over at some point and contributed as well), I grab bowls and a ladle, as the soup is essentially just staying hot at this point. This is all to try and take my mind off the very personal conversation Spark is having with her dad, because eavesdropping is bad. 

An Izzy Alert goes off, making Spark’s phone vibrate and ring, as well as making Spark’s laptop flash and pull up a new tab. 

Spark looks at both of the devices in question with apprehension on her face. 

She picks up her phone and puts it to her ear, accepting the call. 

I can faintly hear from my locale what is being said on the other side of the phone. 

“Hello, sweetheart,” a voice I don’t recognize says. Spark looks confused. She doesn’t say anything. Her dad, behind her, has gone pale. Like, deathly white.  
“You know, we could really use a mind like yours here. Your father has been a dear, of course, but brawn will always be bested by brains.”

I look very closely at Mr. Dillon. He is pale, frozen, and he suddenly lunges for the phone. 

“She doesn’t want anything to do with you,” he says, tone airing on the side of protectiveness and rage. 

“Ah, Maxwell. You don’t control her actions, even with the excellent work you’ve been putting forth.”

Spark’s dad grabs the phone out of Spark’s hand. He moves onto the fire escape with Spark calling after him as a crime report pops up on Izzy’s feed.

“Gunshots have been reported just outside your family’s bakery, Miss King,” Izzy says politely. “The perpetrator is taking down police easily and has already caused a lot of property damage.”

Mama! The bakery!

I don’t even bother with the suit, just straight up running out the window. Petal yells at me to go while Izzy reports that the Avengers are on the scene through my earrings. Petal appears to be yelling at Spark’s dad while helping Spark get her phone back while Spark’s dad yells threats into the phone. 

Izzy gives me continuous updates while I parkour through the city. Police are being advised to stay out of the situation. They are withdrawing. Hostiles are appearing on the scene, in the usual HYDRA getup. The Avengers are fighting the main problem and the rest of the agents. Citizens have mostly left the area. Minor injuries, noticeably only to police or from a stampeding crowd. 

I get there just in time to see the bakery in shambles. Somehow, the front window was shattered, leaving shards of glass in a puddle of danger in front of my home. The lights are still on, and the furniture is haphazard, like is was tossed or kicked aside in a rush. Sugar dusts the floor in front of the counter, along with several spilled drinks and food items. There’s no blood though, so Mama is probably fine. 

I take a deep breath and jog forward. Around a corner, and there’s the square. It is also very different then my memories of it; the greenery is either trampled, on fire, or has strange chunks missing. Surrounding shops have bullet holes, broken windows, dents in metal pieces. The Avengers are standing at various points, fighting off HYDRA goons with all they’ve got while two figures wrestle in the middle of the mess. All I can see is the flash of a knife before an agent is approaching me, gun in hand. 

He’s quickly taken out, with only a judo flip and a few well-placed jabs and kicks while midair. 

I’m free quickly, breathing a little hard. Then I see the face of one of the wrestling women, and-

Oh Dios mío. That’s Shay. 

The hot girl I like is being attacked by HYDRA, okay, that’s the weirdest thing that’s ever happened to me, including the weird powers and becoming a superhero things. She is also defending herself pretty well, with the hottest look of concentration on her face-

Nope, no. Focus. Fighting. 

Everyone is confused by my presence. I see Hawkeye giving me a wave on top of a nearby building, but everyone else is just looking at me with confusion and/or anger. 

Shay is staring at me with the dark brown eyes of hers, which makes my skin tingle pleasantly, but she quickly re-snaps her attention to the fight which she oddly appears to be winning. 

I fight the slight flush to my face that theoretically and totally did come from the dude I just took down. 

“Rifle! Longing!” I was going to fight another agent, but then the woman with brown hair in a crew cut starts yelling strange words. Nonsense. “Shattered! Nest! Rebirth!” Shay looks to be in pain, her movements almost entirely stopping and becoming mechanical; her hands flying to her ears, her chin dipping down sharply. “One! Nine! Twenty-three!” What? “Frozen!” Is Shay okay? “Return! Needle!”

Shay is deathly still for about thirty seconds, her expression tortured. The agents not in active combat are all staring at her. I am also staring at her. The Avengers are a little too busy for that.

Shay gets to her feet robotically, moving no more than necessary. Her face is scary blank. Her eyes dart around like the alley cats I’ve seen do; taking in everything quickly, focusing mostly on threats. 

She shoots at Hawkeye from his building before I can even register her moving, let alone getting out a gun and aiming it. Hawkeye drops quickly enough to avoid the bullet, and in return an arrow lands itself into Shay’s side.

What the f***. 

I stare at Shay. The complete change in her body language, her face, the way she’s barely even reacting to the arrow (in her body, oh my God Shay’s been shot), everything down to the way she steps, breathes, exists, is different. 

My heart skips several beats and my mind scrambles. What is happening?

Shay snaps the arrow in her side in half, chucking the useless end to the side with a single, mechanical movement. 

An agent lunges at me with the most bloodlust I’ve ever had aimed in my direction. I take him out quickly, with skills borrowed from my gymnastics routines. But as soon as his body hits the cement, I find myself surrounded. 

Dios.

Let the bodies hit the floor, I guess. Or maybe it’s raining men. There’s actually one woman, so I guess that last one’s actually inaccurate. 

Anyway, by the time I’m free again, I have had enough time to put my thoughts together just enough to go into Blue Wave mindset, otherwise known as the put any crazy stuff aside, get the danger out of the way, and try to help mindset. 

Shay has a stab wound, several gunshot wounds, and an arrow sticking out of her. That quickly throws the mindset out the window. 

Stupid hot girl, stupid bisexual mess of a brain. 

Shay is also attacking the Hulk. Which I guess is better than anyone else, because the big guy looks more annoyed than hurt. 

“Let’s wrap this up!” yells the woman that Shay was fighting with earlier. “I want everyone in lines, Raven!”

Raven?

My mind flashes back to a woman who tossed herself off a rooftop a while back. She looked so sad, and was dressed in weird clothes like Shay is wearing now, and she had a weird name that I am suddenly pulling into question.

If she jumped off a roof, she clearly didn’t like where she was. Which means she was trapped. How?

The Avengers, who seem to have some prior knowledge and a few more brain cells than me, start yelling at Shay.

Shay is still attacking the Hulk, who is no more hurt than when she started, really. Both Tony Stark and the Black Widow are yelling at Shay.

“Please!” Iron Man yells as an agent attempts to shoot him while he’s in the suit uselessly. Shay tries to stab the Hulk, which doesn’t work for the second time. “Remember! You came to my tower! You were a translator! You stayed late-Pepper picked you up-” he’s cut off by his own repulsor blast as a scare tactic against an attacking agent. Shay dodges a punch from Hulk by somersaulting away, the concrete behind her crushed.“She brought you down to my workshop with Spark!”

“Пожалуйста, вам нужно запомнить,” the Widow says as soon as Mr. Stark and I are both distracted with a horde of agents (they seem to be unending). “Вы нежны и добры, когда можете пощадить это, и вы защитили меня.” 

“Пожалуйста.” 

Yeah, I didn’t understand that.

Shay apparently does though, because after both of their speeches her face is slightly less blank and slightly more Shay than before. 

She looks at me for a beat too long, and blood starts coming out her nose again. It makes my heart skip a beat and my breathing pick up. “Shay?” I ask, concerned. Why does she have so many nosebleeds?

“Raven!” the woman yells at her. “Cancel evaluation! Your orders!”

Man, I don’t understand what’s going on. 

Presumably, though, this woman is controlling Shay somehow, and I need to help her.

Shay gives me one last glance before trying to take out the Hulk with a stolen machine gun. I flinch in sympathy, but this goes as well as her last tries. 

Then she looks at me again. I don’t know why I’m more interesting than the Avengers or anything, but whatever. She glances around sometimes, but mostly she just looks at me.

“Shay,” I say quietly, trying to put as much warmth into my voice as possible, “You don’t have to have them control you. It’s okay.”

I’ve used the same voice for survivors of shootings and house fires and kidnappings, and I don’t know if it will work. 

I feel an odd movement of air to my right, and I see the Black Widow standing next to me. She, in all of her glory, takes my arm, nods at Shay politely and kind of disappointedly, before calmly walking both of us to standing in the middle of the square, standing next to each other, with Shay following behind with her gun. 

I let this happen because my brain kind of stutters once I realize that the Black Widow is touching me. It takes a bit to process, and by the time I’ve stopped freaking out, Iron Man is also standing in our little line.

Agents of HYDRA around the perimeter start branching off and collecting civilians from hiding holes. Behind cars, under fire escapes, wherever, they all come to stand, shaking with fear, in the lines. 

I try to project confidence, but my hands are shaking. 

Shay is fighting Captain America. It’s quite close, and the world stops twice when Shay is hit with arrows from Hawkeye, and there’s several moments of terrifying fighting (who do I want to win, I have no idea), before Shay just takes Cap’s shield and hits him over the head with it. Of course, this doesn’t knock Cap out, but he does look surprisingly dazed. Shay hauls him (I notice so he won’t be hurt) over to Mr. Stark and then goes after Hawkeye.

I’m left in awe after her whole ‘climbing the building in under a minute’ thing, before being just decked by her chase of Hawkeye and then the capture of the archer. 

By the time she gets back, she has a worrying amount of active bleeding and one archer following along. The woman who keeps yelling has taken down the Hulk, somehow, with one cut.

“Suit off,” the woman instructs Mr. Stark after everyone gets in line. Mr. Stark hesitates for a moment, then looks at Shay for a second and follows the instructions. 

There’s a silence so tense, that the minor sounds of metal on metal as the suit disengages rings loudly. Mr. Stark steps out with his chin tilted high in defiance and his eyes pinned on Ghost with a clear challenge.

Ghost gives him a slight smirk. 

“Shoot them.”

Well, heck. 

I look at Shay, see the hesitation that wasn’t there when she was taking out Cap or chasing Hawkeye. There’s a slight haunted look in her eyes, the same one I see sometimes in Bryn’s eyes when something reminds them of our father. It makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand to attention. 

Cap speaks before I can, his eyes seeing the hesitation in Shay as well.

“Shay, you don’t know me,” he says, “But I know Bucky.”

I feel like I’m in the middle of an exam without having even taken the class, let alone studying. Who is Bucky, why would this matter to Shay, why does this woman want me dead by Shay’s hand, why is Shay following her orders? 

Shay’s hand stutters in place. The haunted look weans just slightly, now taking on an edge of warmth. 

“My name is Steven Grant Rogers.” I mean, I did know that from History. Half points? “I want to help Bucky, and I want to help you.”

Steve swallows, the only sign of nervousness I can see. He has taken all of our lives into his hands, and he looks cool as a cucumber. “I don’t know what’s going on with you, but I need you to try and think for yourself,” he continues seriously, his I’m Captain America Face firmly in place, but with a new hint of vulnerability. “Please try.”

You know, being shot here isn’t the worst way to go. At least I have my childhood heroes standing next to me, I’m being defended by Captain America, I know Bryn and Mama are safe, and I’m in a pretty (or, it used to be, let’s go with familiar) spot near the bakery, and Shay’s the one pulling the trigger. Honestly, I could have died in a lot worse ways being Blue Wave, like, forever ago. Being taken out by a druggie or something. This is kinda nice, if I think about it. 

My heart jumps to my throat anyway when Shay’s arm moves confidently to point the gun. But then her hand jerks, knocking the angle off. She doesn’t even shoot the gun-there’s no noise besides breathing.

Oh. 

Are they physically controlling her? How could someone do that? Can I even convince her to override that with words? Can she even manage it?

I walk up to Shay slowly. The woman points a gun at my chest, but I barely glance at her- being Blue Wave has desensitized me to almost being shot. Plus, Shay needs help.

Shay’s eyes focus on me, really see me, and I can see the fear in them. 

Her hand, completely ignoring the fear she’s feeling, swings up again, the gun this time pointed at me. I give her a gentle smile that may be a little sad around the edges, and her hand jerks away from my body violently. The gun flies out of her hand and slides away with a clatter. 

I breathe a little easier.

The woman laughs, except her laugh is more like a grating bark. “Seriously? So soon?” She moves suddenly, and the movement out of the corner of my eyes almost makes me look at her, but Shay is more important. “C’mon, I was having fun!”

Yeah, I definitely hate her. 

I continue walking slowly towards Shay. I stop a foot away from her because I don’t have a death wish. Shay’s eyes are back to scared, and she says something that is reminiscent of a drunkard’s speech. 

“Shay, it’s okay,” I say Telegraphing all movements, I take the knife from Shay’s tense hand and calmly throw it into the yelling woman’s leg. “You’re okay. I’m Brooke, remember?”

I take a breath when I see the recognition in Shay’s eyes. “How are they controlling you?” I need this info to help her. I pray that she knows, or can tell me. 

The woman laughs almost annoyedly, strangely, the bloody knife from her freakishly fast healing leg in her hand, pointing at me. I stare into her eyes as part of a challenge. I’ve seen much weirder things that the regrowth of her stab wound. “That’s Raven, sweety. Assassin, murderer, just the same as me,” she says teasingly, almost cruelly. The knife flies from her hand as an answer to my challenge. “Your friend doesn’t exist. You were probably just an acquaintance while she tried to get into that one’s bed.” She points to Mr. Stark.

Wow, okay. I suddenly feel really bad for Shay. Like, really bad.

Shay’s hand yanks its way to the path of the knife. 

MY mind captures a snapshot of the moment; Shay, her eyes starting to cloud, blood streaming from her nose again, several bleeding wounds open and ignored, a knife plunging through her hand, with just a slight welling of blood surrounding it. 

My entire body buzzes and prickles. 

I barely hear the woman talking again, because Shay is starting to sway slightly, like a willow in a tiny breeze, and she’s bleeding so much... “This is new,” she comments. “I’ve seen hesitance, imperfection, but never treason.”

I don’t even look at her. I don’t care what she committed “treason” against, I don’t want to think about how many times Shay must have done this for “hesitance and imperfection” to happen. I’m entirely consumed by the look on Shay’s face and in her eyes; desperation, fear, uncertainty. All in tiny microexpressions decorating her mostly blank face.

A gunshot wakes me up again from the hyperfixation on Shay. Shay has moved to a deadly, forced calm, shooting the woman and taking out another handgun. 

And then Shay freezes, and her eyes almost glaze while they flick around in a panicked way. Her lower face pretty much painted in red, and it’s only getting worse very rapidly. 

Shay’s eyes land on me, and take in every detail I have to offer in the space of seconds. She breathes out unsteadily, and I can see the tension in her shoulders and eyes. 

She reaches out for me slowly, and I can see her eyes cloud even more. Her eyes are still on me, though. She stops reaching for me suddenly, and her hand drops. I can see her looking around the others, lines up around us, and the sudden but slight shudder of her body is horrifying. It’s like she sees us for the first time. 

She moves to shoot the woman smoothly, taking me completely by surprise. I jump slightly. But the woman is standing, with a terrifying smile on her face. Apparently, shooting her in the eye isn’t good enough. 

Shay is hit in the left shoulder. She barely moves, doesn’t flinch. Just gets the look of cold calculation again.

The fight between the still-unknown woman and Shay is fast, deadly, and makes my heart jump to my throat several times. The Widow holds me back, shaking her head at me; she probably has more experience on this than me, but still I want to go to Shay and protect her. But I am left watching: punch duck kick dodge swipe block grab knee swipe knife punch kick backflip retreat.

The woman stands after Shay backs off, one of her knives stained red (I have stopped breathing entirely by this point). She’s panting slightly, and her smile is gone. Shay is examining her with that calculating look in her eyes. 

She ends up tackling the woman. I would usually track the fight, but all I can see is Shay and how much she’s bleeding. Eventually, when Shay has pinned the woman down, Black Widow’s arm drops. I rush forward, with the Avenger in step with me. 

The woman slips past Shay’s hurt arm just as I get within arm’s length. I just break her wrist and help Shay pin her just like I’ve done dozens of times before. Shay stares at me, a slight blush coloring her face, chasing out the worry. 

I smile at her tentatively. 

“Black Ghost,” Shay says, serious even when saying that ridiculous name, “I’m sorry.”

The Black Widow puts a gun against Black Ghost’s forehead and right over her heart and politely tells her to stand in the most deadpan fashion I have ever seen, even counting the many police encounters under my belt. I gently roll Shay onto her side, using one hand to keep her from sagging to the ground and the other to keep the Ghost woman under control. 

“Why Black Ghost?” I whispers to her, remembering one of Spark’s Medical Rants™ that was talking about (ironically) keeping hurt people awake by having them talk to you. She gives me this short little glance that has a lot of humor and affection for someone who looks at death’s door. 

“Just Ghost is a SHIELD killer,” she mutters, which has got me very confused and concerned. “Wouldn’t do if we got the two confused. Also, because it’s cooler maybe?”

I know I should take the punches as they come, but what the heck?

“What?” I say. Black Widow says the same thing at the same time, but with a sharp tone. Clearly, I’m the only confused one here. 

“Yeah. She’s this, like, teen. Started young. Takes people out and disappears,” Shay slurs, her eyes starting to roam and her body twitching. She’s tense, like she’s in pain, as well. 

Mr. Stark leans over Shay, concern painted on his face. Shay stares up at him, fear in her eyes, and Mr. Stark looks sorry for a second before Shay groans, seemingly frustrated with herself. 

Why do I understand nothing?

I start to sing in Spanish, softly just saying anything that comes to mind. How I feel about Shay, my concern, a lullaby, whatever. Shay realaxes minutely, so I sing a little louder. If this helps, by God am I doing it. The Widow makes a small surprised sound at my side, I don’t know why, but continues wrangling the Ghost woman. Hawkeye is helping her, and the pair of them are kind of terrifying whenever I glance over.

Mr. Stark mutters something about hurting an...octopus, I think, and then punches Ghost so hard she passes out. Hawkeye just laughs, slaps some handcuffs that are a suspicious blue color on her wrists and ankles, and hauls her over his shoulder in a fireman’s carry.

When I look back at Shay, now singing about the color of her eyes and hair, because whatever, she’s looking at me with softness in her eyes. All the other times I’ve seen that look, it’s followed quickly by a wall of cold, but this time it doesn’t come. 

Shay passes out instead, which makes me stop breathing for a second before I see her chest rise and fall. 

Mrs. Widow (?) picks up Shay in a bridal carry, with Shay’s head lolling and her blood slowly dripping to the concrete. She gives me a glance full of uncertainty before walking off. I follow her because even if these are the Avengers, something is up with Shay and I think I can help.

“Who’re you?” Hawkeye asks me, and I experience a moment of panic.

Hi, I’m a minor superhero you’ve probably not even heard of and I met this girl and she was kinda cool and I think I have a crush on her Mr. Hawkeye sir?  
Uh, she’s my crush and I want to help her?  
I’m just some girl who met Shay?

Yeah! That will go perfectly! 

“Uh, she came into my family’s bakery and she was nice and then she came in a while after and she has bloody nose and my twin gave her a rag to sop up the blood and she looked like she needed a friend so I invited her to the aquarium and she seemed nice there and liked the dolphins and then we got Korean BBQ which she was kind of confused about but liked and she’s my friend please don’t make me go I want to help,” I say in one long, nervous string of words. 

Hawkeye blinks, clearly not having processed all of that. “What?”

Mr. Stark, still not having put on his suit again looks at me very seriously. “Shay’s your friend?”

“Tones,” Mrs. Widow says sharply. 

“Nat, not everyone’s a spy,” Mr. Stark says with a kind of amused annoyance, “A friend of Shay must be a hard title to get, with how hesitant she was. Especially if she’s as suspicious as you. The kid’s fine, if useful in a fight.”

“Uh,” I say, “I live in a bad neighborhood.”

“Everywhere in this city is a bad neighborhood if it’s cheap,” Hawkeye comments. “Uh, is Steve okay?”

I look over. Captain America is almost frantically looking around at the surrounding buildings, scanning intently.

“He’s looking for Bucky,” Mr. Stark says sadly. “Nat, you handle it, you’re much better at emotional talks than me.”

“No I’m not,” Mrs. Widow says under her breath, but she goes, with only a backwards suspicious glance at me. She manhandles the Captain down from where he was beginning to climb a building and starts to talk to/scold him. 

“I’m not a spy,” I say stupidly, turning back to Mr. Stark and Mr. Hawkeye. “Please let me help Shay. Also, what’s SHIELD?”

Mr. Stark laughs humorously. “Yeah, you can, kid, if you tell me more about how you know Shay. And Nat thinks tons of people are spies, it’s cool. SHIELD...this is kind of illegal for me to tell you, but the American government is awful anyway-”  
“Steve’s going to give you the disappointment eyebrows,” Mr. Hawkeye says delightedly.  
Mr. Stark continues without missing a beat. “-They’re this government organisation that only kind of exists that basically handles anything extra normal, from aliens to superheroes to mutants.”

Well. That’s bad news bears for me and my friends I guess. May the reaper visit us early or whatever.

“And what do they do to handle them...is that why they have killers? Teenage killers?” I ask, hoping he doesn’t read too much into my questions. Mr. Hawkeye starts to lead us to a large plane-type thing, after collecting Dr. Banner, who I hand a discarded jacket that he takes. Admittedly, I am not as excited about meeting him as some of my friends’ would be, but I’m not as nerdy as them and already have overwhelmed my star struck meter. 

“I don’t know, I hope not,” Mr. Stark says, herding a half-conscious Dr. Banner onto the plane. He has one arm around his shoulders and less personal space than socially acceptable. I, a disaster bisexual, politely ignore this. “They’re a spy organisation, their secrets have secrets. I only know, like, three quarters of what’s going on from personal experience and hacking their stuff.”

Why does one of the most powerful men in the world sound suspiciously like Spark and the rest of my smart friends? Are all geniuses just photocopies of each other with a few differences between copies? Do I just attract geniuses? The world will never know. 

I, surprisingly, am allowed on the plane. I stand in the middle and touch nothing but the floor, staring around me at the high-tech room. Mr. Stark does not notice this, continuing to talk even without my input. 

“The whole shebang is uper-duper secret. Like, the president, a few cabinet members, and a few very select personnel outside SHIELD know about it. They manage the Avengers, or at least try to. We’re planning on striking out on our own-Brucie-bear, sit down, I did not say collapse-”

I wonder if I can just stand here the whole time. Will I be knocked off my feet on takeoff? It looks like Hawkeye’s piloting, and I have no idea what his abilities are. Will Shay fall from the little cot he placed her on? Should I tuck her in place? Should I sit down? What if I break something? How would I even begin to pay for it? Or recover from doing that in front of the Avengers to the Avengers’ plane thing? 

“-Anyway, they aren’t even high tech, really. Even with all the hot air they puff, my company has stuff light years ahead. They use Hammer Tech, the fools. Idiotic, really. And from a strategy perspective, it’s a wonder they haven’t been taken out for spite’s sake. I mean, I met them by having the director break into my mansion, being injected with a mystery substance, and told to work or be tased. Of course, this didn’t help that much, but their bumbling did give me an idea-”

Izzy is in my ear, telling me how she has informed the rest of the team about Shay, the Avengers, the general situation, and how I am unhurt, ignoring a few cuts and bruises. The sound is kind of off and distant because it’s coming from my earrings. 

“-and they tried to tell me my dad was a good person, which I call BS on. I mean, he spent half my childhood ignoring me and the other half yelling and hitting me with things. Like, such good-person behavior, how could I have missed it-”

Dr. Banner is now collapsed on a chair. He has on pants and has the jacket loosely tucked around his shoulders, which stays in place because the poor man is slumped forward. It really looks like becoming the Hulk takes it out of him; he’s pale, shaking slightly, and looks like he’s only kind of awake. Mr. Stark is currently grabbing him a shirt, water bottle, and granola bar, talking all the way. 

“-and don’t get me wrong, SHIELD hasn’t been completely awful. I mean, otherwise, I wouldn’t have met Hawkie-poo or Nat, and those two I would die for in a heartbeat. But, I mean, the organisation at large? Would not recommend. Although Pirate Grandpa, he-”

I cautiously take out my phone. The notifications are going crazy-I have at least seven texts from Bryn, a few for both Spark and Petal, and one from Onyx because he’s a sweetheart. I send out a quick response in the groupchat that I’m fine and currently trying to get Shay some help.

“-is generally okay, sometimes a little crazy, but generally really smart and up-front, and I like that in a coworker, although we was a bit too serious for me. Real dramatic at all times.”

I have decided that he rambles when he’s antsy. And uses his hands, as he’s now handing me a granola bar, blanket, and water bottle without missing a beat. I politely take a sip from the water bottle as he speed walks away. As he starts typing on a hologram that jump scares me when it pops up, the Black Widow comes into the plane thing toting one Captain America, who looks strangely defeated. I hand him my granola bar and blanket, but he gives me the blanket back. The granola bar is stolen by Widow before he can hand it back to me and given to him with a glare. 

Then she looks at me for a very long time. I start sweating almost instantly.  
“I’m not a spy?” I say hesitantly.  
“I know,” she says in response, totally blankly and still looking at me intensely. 

Ominous. 

Mr. Hawkeye yells, “Take off in five, ETA to Avengers Tower is fifteen minutes, medical is prepared for Shay.”

“Okay, thanks,” Mrs. Widow yells back with more softness in her voice than she used with me. “Sit,” she tells me, back to deadpan, gesturing toward the seat next to Dr. Banner. I almost protest, wanting to sit next to Shay, but I realize that’s stupid because I can’t help her and also Mrs. Widow is scary, so I sit. 

I stare at Shay to make myself feel better. The bleeding is slowing down slightly, but I don’t know if that’s because she getting better or running out of blood. 

Dr. Banner appears to be recovering. He’s sipping from his water bottle and glancing at me occasionally. He also is regaining color to his skin and breathing more deeply instead of the gaspy breaths he was taking. 

“Do you think she’ll be okay?” I ask anxiously, my hands twisting in my lap. (Not that uncommon, with me and my ADHD, but this particular pattern is a nervous tic, not an absent movement.)

“I’m not that kind of doctor, kid,” he says with a hint of amusement and a lot of tiredness, “But in my non-medical-professional opinion, I think she’ll live. I’ve been told she’s like Steve, and if that’s true, I’m confident she’ll pull through.”

My breath freezes in my chest. “She’s like Steve?” I ask. Dr. Banner looks at me suddenly, startled, and I continue, not even noticing, “Does that mean she has a chance?”

“Yeah, kid,” Dr. Banner says, startled for some reason. “You’re-you are reacting very calmly about this.” 

I look him dead in the eyes. “I don’t discriminate, or I try my best not to, at least. If the person is a person, then they’re a person. Doesn’t matter what adjectives apply to them.”

Dr. Banner’s face has softened around the edges, and when he speaks, his voice has taken the same quality. “That’s-you’re a good kid.”

“Teenager, technically,” I say absently, turning back to staring at Shay. “I am sixteen.”

I look at Shay closely. She doesn’t look a ton like Captain America-none of the ‘peak of human perfection’ muscles, although Shay is definitely above average. Although I guess it would explain some of the weird stuff that happened in the square-her casually taking bullets and arrows, the kind of haunted look in her eyes. Wait a second, does that mean Shay is the same age as-

“Does that mean Shay is really old, too?” I ask.

Snickering breaks out in the plane thing. I flush, looking over at the Captain as he sighs tiredly. 

“Yeah, yeah, I’m a senior citizen, you’re all young whippersnappers, we’ve been over this,” he says, rolling his eyes. 

Mr. Stark is straight-up giggling. Ms. Widow has a slight teasing smile on her face. Dr. Banner is smiling uncontrollably at ”Steve”. Mr. Hawkeye in the cockpit is practically wheezing. 

“We don’t know how old Shay is,” Captain America says, ignoring all the laughter in the room. “We know she probably got some type of serum at some point after a few years after I got my own. But the actual year is guess work.”

(“It spreads!” wheezes Mr. Hawkeye delightedly in the cockpit. Mr. Stark is giggling right along with him.)

I look at Shay again, trying to remember if she spoke or acted old-timey while we were together. I guess her confusion at the Korean BBQ and awe at the aquarium, and once she, kind of mystified, asked about the subway. But that could be put up to her being from-

“Wait, do you guys know she’s from Germany?” I ask. “She mentioned that at the bakery. Kind of looked confused about it, though.”

“Germany?” Mr. Stark asks, sobering very quickly. “So our time frame is Germany some time after the forties?”

Everyone in the plane winces. Not a lot of good options, especially because it’s likely Shay was given (forced to have?) the serum sooner rather than later. 

My leg starts bouncing to replace my hands as the Background Thing that helps me focus. I don’t really notice. 

“What?” Captain America asks. “What happened?”

As Mr. Stark fills him in with the help of Ms. Widow (the latter of whom is much less biased about it) about stuff like the recovery from being a country run by Nazis and stuff like the Berlin Wall, Dr. Banner starts on his granola bar.

“We land in three!” Mr. Hawkeye shouts from the pilot’s seat.  
“Great, thanks, Clint!” Dr. Banner yells back.

“Uh, what should I call everyone?” I ask Dr. Banner. “Like, names. I think people would laugh if I called the Black Widow Ms. Widow but I don’t have anything better to call her.”

Dr. Banner snorts. “Oh my god, you’re a second Peter,” he says, grinning, “I’m Bruce Banner, over there is Tony Stark. In the pilot’s seat is Clint, the intimidating one with red hair is Natasha, and America’s golden boy is Steve Rogers.”

“Okay,” I say, remembering for a fact that Hawkeye and Black Widow’s names are secrets, “I won’t tell anyone.”

Dr. Banner grins at me. “You won’t, I think,” he says. 

My eyes widen. Uh. “Okay.”

“One minute, strap in, everyone!” Mr. Clint shouts.

Dr. Banner helps me figure out the seatbelts which, in my opinion, are more complicated than needed. My ADHD brain, while we do this, decides to think of Shay, a random song I was listening to forever ago, and my active train of thought. Which, you know, rude.

My thoughts on Shay run like a train wreck that occasionally crashes into Crushville. The song just plays the chorus and a random line on repeat. The regular. 

The plane thing lands with a jolt, but is much smoother than I (a human who has never been on an airplane) would expect for a multi-ton aircraft hitting the ground at several miles per hour. Either Mr. Clint is a good pilot or this plane thing is high tech, or maybe both.

The doors open without a sound, and the seatbelts disengage at the same time. So, I’m guessing high-tech.

“I should make it automatically buckle people in,” Mr. Stark mutters. “The math involved-”

Ms. Natasha smacks him lightly on the arm and clears him out of the way of the incoming EMTs. Or, at least, the Avenger’s version of them. They put Shay on a stretcher quickly and with equal efficiency get her off the plane and though a pair of steel doors, running all the way. 

The Avengers are checked up on by a group of slightly slower-moving doctors. Tony is scolded for trying to hide a sprained wrist, Mr. Steve’s bullet is taken out, I answer a lot of confused doctors’ questions. Yes, I’m fine, no, I didn’t fight, yes, I was a hostage, no, I wasn’t hurt, etcetera. 

Eventually, we are released. Mr. Stark is scolded some more, this time with a sling and a pout by the rest of the Avengers, and I walk along slightly behind Ms. Natasha, who leads the way. I would go first, but I don’t know where I’m going. 

And then we get to Shay.

She’s in an operating room, so we’re not allowed in, but we sit on the other side of a glass wall while a doctor tries to explain how she’s doing. I am totally lost, despite Spark’s best efforts to rant me into understanding in the past-I mostly just catch ‘abrasions to the entire body’ and ‘signs of electrical trauma’ and ‘clear malnutrition, dehydration, and sleep deprivation’ because my brain got stuck on some other words so much that I didn’t hear the rest of the ones that came after. 

I do, however, understand that this is serious. The doctor has a grim look on his face, and his hands are white-knuckled around his clipboard that he consults occasionally. 

And Shay isn’t looking great either. 

She has several machines hooked up to her (“As a precaution, not out of need,” says the doctor guy), three IVs, and some people messing around with her organs. I watch someone carefully remove a bullet from how it was jutting into an organ (not yet having pierced it) while also wedged on a cracked rib. There are seven doctors and three nurses in the room, all of whom seem to have been consumed by controlled panic. 

“This case is unpredictable,” says Doctor Man (he introduced himself…I can’t remember his name). “She does seem to be comparable to Captain Rogers, but there does seem to be some key differences, which makes us hesitant to treat her as we would the Captain. We are essentially guessing and praying.”

Mr. Stark is staring at Shay with a single-minded look in his eyes. Ms. Widow looks mostly at the doctor, her eyes sticking on Shay a second too long whenever they wander. Mr. Clint looks uncomfortable and strangely somber. Dr. Banner seems like he’s just trying to take in the information. 

I take a deep breath and look back at Shay. 

Her face is still, blank. More peaceful than I’ve ever seen her, excluding the occasional twitch. Her hair hangs off the side of the hospital bed in a tangle, yet carefully kept to one area. It’s duller than the last time I saw her, along with her skin. I wonder when the last time she ate was-it looks like it’s been a while. 

“We are trying to patch up the damage caused by various bullets and arrows, but it is difficult with the areas healing themselves over, especially when they heal incorrectly. We are probably going to have to remove the bullets and arrows, as their placement is detrimental to her health, and the arrows are definitely going to have to be removed.” 

Deep breaths. She’s going to be okay. She heals quick. These are Tony Stark’s doctors, the Avengers’ doctors, they have to ge good. She’ll be fine. 

There is a lot of blood. 

My heart hurts. It feels like here’s poison growing in my chest, a horrible black that grows like mold. I bite my lip, my breathing picking up.

“Uh, is there something wrong with the teenager…?” 

“Kid, kid, hey, look at me. Kid, did she say a name?” 

The voices are fast now. Panicked. 

Hands touch me, and I flinch back, not able to see anything but Shay, who is hurt. She looks so much like Bryn did, years ago, collapsed on the floor after my father-

“Let me through.”

Dabbing makeup over a black eye. Long sleeves to cover up bruises. Shame. Self-blaming. Guilt. Fear, so much-

“You’re okay. Ms. King, it’s okay. Brooke. Brooke King. Your name is Brooke King, it used to be Brooke Hermandes. you are a friend of Shay’s, and you are currently standing in Avengers Tower. I am the Black Widow, one of the Avengers. I will protect you.”

Gasping sounds. 

Mama, crying but trying to hide it. Bryn yelling at our father that liking boys isn’t a big deal, no, I’m not a f-

“I’m going to count to five. While I count up, you breathe in. While I count down, you breathe out. Try it with me.”

Mama, tears ruining her makeup, Bryn screaming that he is not a f-

“One.”

Trying desperately to take a breath while also being overwhelmed with memories. 

Being homeless in New York City as a Mexican-American family. Slurs, begging, shelters.

“Two.”

A flying punch, a pile of homework I can’t focus on, Father finding the bakery-

“Three.”

‘Broken glass, words in spray paint along walls, the alley cat meowing loudly at us.

“Four.”

Breathe in. Come on, lungs.

“Five. Good, now back down.” 

I think I’m crying.

“Four.”  
“Can we get a separate room to calm her down in-”  
“Of course, this way-”  
“Boys.”

Stumbling. Like stumbling along a hallway, trying not to throw up-

“Four. Brooke, focus on me.”

The hands are not touching me. I-safe? Or am I hiding?  
Dark closets and locked doors and harsh breathing-

“Three, Brooke. Breathe out.” 

I’m-I’m supposed to be breathing out. Breathing out. Why is it so hard?  
Breathing shallowly because my ribs hurt with each breath. 

“Two, Brooke.”

Breathing out. Right. Just have to focus on-  
Crying because I just can’t focus and I only have ten minutes to finish before Dad-

“One. Brooke, good job, but I need you to look at me.”

Her eyes are sharp, but somehow soothing. She’s seen everything, I can’t mess up here, it’s okay. I slump forward, onto the woman, and she cautiously hugs me loosely. 

Eventually, it ended. I breathed again, realised I was standing in a janitor closet with the Black Widow, while hugging the Black Widow, while crying, and just focused on breathing because oh my God what about Shay.

I try to open the door, but Ms. Natasha stops me. 

“Brooke, with how you reacted, I don’t think going back-”  
“I need to see Shay,” I say firmly. I look into her eyes and try to convey what I feel. It’s not an option, it’s an eventuality. I need to be by Shay’s side.  
Mr. Natasha’s opened mouth is interrupted by a hesitant knock on the door. After I open it, a nervous nurse gives me a surprised once-over before saying, “The surgery is over. We did the best we could, but she’ll have to be under close observation-”

I gently push the nurse aside and then sprint to the room Shay was in. Shay has been stitched up, and covered with a blanket. The machines still are attached to her, but nothing beyond the heart monitor appears to be doing much to me, although most of the machines are on, ready. One nurse hovers over Shay, watching her carefully. Right now he is checking that her IV is firmly in place. 

I open the door hastily, thankfully not quickly enough for it to bang on the wall-Shay needs her sleep badly at this point. I get closer to see her for myself.

Her skin has a bit more color, but her hair remains the same. She’s breathing evenly. All of her wounds are covered by the blanket and probably several layers of bandages. The heart monitor is faster than the normal resting average I have heard many times due to patrol mishaps, and when I glance at it, my heart jumps to my throat and my stomach takes a vacation in the core of the Earth.

Why the fudge is her heart going that fast? Isn’t, that, like, mildly stressed levels of speed?

“We assume that like Captain Rogers her heartbeat and temperature are more heightened than average,” the nurse says. “Her heart rate hasn’t changed from when she was unconscious to when we medicated her.” 

“Right,” I say, unsure of what to do. “Can I-uh, will it hurt her if I touch her?”

I blush. I am such a disaster bisexual. Also, deep into I Have A Crush Please Help Territory.

The nurse takes this in stride, thankfully. This poor man has probably seen far worse than a pining teenager. “Her hands and face are definitely safe, probably the arms, too. I would make sure to not touch her chest, core, or stomach. Be gentle. I’ll be in here to respond immediately if anything goes wrong.” 

I grab a chair from out in the hallway (probably for fretting family and friends or potentially sleeping overnight in) and carry it over to the side of Shay’s bed. I make sure not to make too much noise because I don’t know if Shay would wake up because of it, and I really don’t want that to happen.

I sit down and carefully take her hand. I see Ms. Natasha stopping anyone from coming in the room with a few words and glares, and feel a small burst of affection for her. 

I start singing again. I really hope the nurse-who is now sitting and reading a file full of papers-doesn’t know Spanish.

It’s a random melody. As long as it’s comforting and smooth (almost like a lullaby), it goes. It’s random words, as well, just describing Shay or my feelings or anything I can think of that fits. 

Her hand isn’t soft. She has more calluses than Ember, who literally is a blacksmith. But it’s solid, with long fingers and slightly long nails. I like it; it compliments my compact, kind of cubby hand, with freckles decorating the back, which is stroking over her arm and wandering over her arm. 

“Tienes ojos de chocolate, suaves y seguros. Pelo de plumas de cuervo, moviéndose con el viento. Quiero que tengas vida, que brilles como nunca antes. Te lo mereces mucho, mi amor vacilante,” I sing softly. Shay deserves more creativity, but I’m going with my thoughts as I think them. “No sé quién eras pero quiero saberlo. Quiero saber quién eres ahora, en qué quieres convertirte. ¿Puedes intentar contarme tus sueños y deseos? Entiendo cualquier duda, estoy dispuesto a esperar. Pero eres tan maravilloso, independientemente del pasado.”

Shay has a mole on the inside of her left arm, about halfway to her hand, slightly off-center. There’s scars all over her arm, however faint-silver leading down from her shoulder, trailing from her hand, on her wrists, jagged marks on her inner arm. They are everywhere I could think of a scar being, but so well-healed that they are just small marks of shining slightly-off-ness among her skin. It’s a kind of beautiful tapestry. Like my freckles and my own scars, they tell stories of her life. I like them.

I sing about her scars, her skin, the mole, her face when she saw the dolphins, her adorable confusion at the notion of Korean BBQ, the way she was so surprised when offered kindness.

Shay tenses suddenly. I stop singing and look up to her face-no movement. But the heart rate machine is picking up, and-

Her eyes open at the same time her body relaxes slightly. She looks at me for a long time with emotions in her eyes that I can’t decipher but which are definitely not negative. Then Shay sees the pane of glass leading to the viewing room and the camera in the corner and she tenses again, her hand tightening around mine before letting go lightning fast. 

I take a second to process this, my hand sitting stupidly on the mattress. My brain is confused-why squeeze and then let go? And only after seeing the cameras?

Oh. 

“Uh, Shay, I don’t know what time you came from,” I start hesitantly, which is really weird to say, “But two girls liking each other isn’t illegal anymore.”

Shay stares at me. Her face, shifting in the small ways it always does, goes from fear to confusion to wonder in the space of seconds. It’s beautiful to watch. Her heart rate speeds up a little, enough for the nurse to look up. 

Her hand hesitantly returns to mine, and then squeezes one more time. She has something like joy in her eyes.

And then I realize I might as well have admitted I liked her while saying that. And that Shay just clearly responded (as clearly as she gets) that she likes me back.

AHHHHHHHHHH.

I’m sure my face is very red, and Shay laughs a tiny little laugh at me. I laugh at myself, too, hiding my face with my free arm while groaning.

“That was so much less romantic that I was planning on saying that,” I whine. “I’ve had a crush on you for months, how many times have I gone over the ‘you’re so hot’ speech?!” 

Shay practically snorts, and then winces. She must have moved too much too abruptly. I look up quickly.  
“You okay?” I ask. The nurse has stood up at the increase in heartrate it causes, and then carefully sits back down when it slows down again.  
Shay looks at me consideringly. She gives the room a sweeping glance, as if to say why would I be, and then lands on my with a smile, which I think says as okay as I can be. Shay’s silent language is kinda hard to learn. 

I smile hesitantly. “Okay,” I say. “Um-you, uh, you like me back, right?”

Shay squeezes my hand. A broken word escapes her lips, barely audible, “Yes.”

I smile hugely. I wish I could hug her. Or kiss her, but I think Shay isn’t ready for that-the past was pretty conservative, right? Courting and stuff? Am I thinking too far in the past?

Shay is smiling at me. It feels like a gift, and I want to memorise the feeling it gives me and keep it with me always. It’s like flying, floating. 

I never want to fall.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am sorry. I tried to make this one fluffy and my evil writers mind was just like but what if there was a panic attack in there too???
> 
> Anyway,  
> 100,000 words!!! 
> 
> Happy holidays guys!!!!


	20. Hospitals, Girlfriends, and Lightning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thor arrives, Shay gets some of her emotional ducks in a row, and the cure for genetic diseases is proposed. 
> 
> Triggers  
> Hospitals  
> Needles  
> Guns  
> Knives  
> i'm sorry

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the short chapter, guys! This is more for relationship/character building. Next chap is from Spark's POV, which will have more plot.

There’s a knock on the door. It is Natalia, who steps to the side to wave at us through the window to my little room. I give her a hesitant smile, knowing that if she and Brooke approve of this place, I am safe, and giving her my permission to enter with the twitch of an eyebrow. Brooke nods at her around the same time. All the Avengers almost instantly are inside the room. 

Little Spider and Mr. Stark are the first in the door, followed closely by Captain Rogers and him by Hawkeye and Dr. Banner. My mind flinches away from the placement of my hand in Brooke’s in front of others, but with the memory of Brooke’s words, I set it aside. 

Hawkeye, who’s name not even HYDRA knows, whoops when he sees the two of us. “Get it!” Dr. Banner swats him but smiles. I relax minisculely more at the open acceptance. Everyone else in the room is scanning me making sure I’m okay. Brooke’s hand in mind is a steady, constant piece of reassurance and warmth. 

“Sorry,” I say haltingly into the silence. It’s an apology for a lot-sorry for fighting you, sorry for existing, sorry for shooting you, sorry for almost killing all of you, sorry. The nurse looks between giving me water and privacy, sitting on the counter and pretending to read his files. Brooke makes up for this by placing a few ice chips in my mouth. I thank her by squeezing her hand. 

“What?” Mr. Stark says. “Why?”  
“No,” Natalia says at the same time. “You’re not allowed to be.”

I stare at Natalia. Around the ice chips, I say, “I shot one of you. I almost shot all of you.” It is the least incriminating of my reasons, at least for my character. 

“I would expect nothing less,” my Little Spider says calmly. “I shot Clint three times when he met me, so, honestly, I think you’re doing incredibly well.”

“Oh, yeah,” Mr. Clint says almost fondly. “I remember that. My hand, a bit off my shoulder, and a graze on my core. To disarm and warn.”

I give Hawkeye and odd look with Brooke. I’m sure together we cover how weird a statement that was, although in incredibly different ways. 

I chose to ignore this-I have more pressing concerns. Like the fact that Natalia is holding Mr. Stark’s hand while also practically conjoined with Dr. Banner. In fact, all of this group are standing strangely close, and certainly in ways that are casually intimate. 

(Lights flashing-)  
(-a man, with two others-)  
(-two women, kissing, a man-)  
(A group of five with very little clothing between them-)

Ah. 

Is that accepted now too? 

I decide not to mention it, in case it isn’t. To refuse to bring anything more down on them. Most of the other stuff I get from their body language is stuff I already know-anxious, worried, tired, minorly injured, projecting fake emotions (in the case of Mr. Stark and my Spider). 

I smile at my Little Spider. For the first time, I let the memories wash over me instead of drown me.

(A perfect twirl-)  
(-blood stained tutus-)  
(-her bob of red hair.)  
(James, smiling-)  
(-holding her small hand-)

“Hello, Natalia,” I say. “How are you, Little Spider?” Natalia is the image of all I could have hoped for her to become on most clear days-she’s standing strong and independant, helping people, happily dating, with love recieved and given away willingly. She’s doing better than me, to be honest. 

Natalia smiles almost nostalically at her name, which, name change, okay. Everyone else reacts with confusion. Hawkeye almost trips, even though he wasn’t in motion. “Ah, yes, my birth name,” Little Spider says. “Natalia Romanova.”

“It’s a nice name, though I assume you no longer use it,” I say. My smile to her is easy and warm, like the ones I share with Brooke. Reassuring. I’ve seen her kill men with a paperclip, a name change won’t change much. 

“I’m Natasha,” she says. I look her over. Red hair, in a sophisticated cut. Confident stance, seven hidden weapons, eyes that are only a little less bright then as the day I first met her. 

“It fits better,” I decide. Natasha relaxes. I can see it in her stance and the way she tilts her head. I want to get out of this bed to give her a hug (and one to Brooke that never ends but that irrelevant), but I think the nurse would just push me right back down, let alone Brooke. 

Speaking of, she has been slowly inching toward my bed for the last ten minutes. She might as well get in, at this rate. It’s sweet.

It makes my chest feel warm. This is startling, but I decide I like it. 

However, the doctors outside my little window have gathered into a huddle and started talking, with much dramatic hand waving and pointing to papers on a clipboard. 

Is something wrong? Nothing hurts more than usual. Maybe with my brain-

(I don’t want to go to a mind doctor-)  
(-Mama, shaking, silent-)  
(“-mental institution might be best-“)  
(Doctors cutting into my skull-)

“Please don’t take me to a mind doctor,” I say, looking at Mr. Stark directly. 

Mr. Stark pauses, but just for a millisecond. I can see that in that space of time, his genius mind went through several scenarios and options. I know the look from training it out of my own face.   
“Shay, I’m not trying to hurt you,” he says softly. “But your brain has suffered serious trauma, physically and in a more emotional sense. I want to help.”

(“Maus, let me help-“ Blake-)  
(-“my darling perle, let me help you to the glory of the Americas!”)

I nod slowly. My mind flicks through several options and their likelihood of being the truth. That this man is lying-doubtful, as there is no obvious change in behavior or tone. That mind doctors have changed-possibly, over the decades, that have changed like the laws of love? Or perhaps HYDRA’s mind doctors are not reflective of the rest from their time? Probable that it’s a combination of the last two. Action? 

“Okay,” I say tentatively. It barely reflects in my tone. “Then perhaps you should convince the doctors outside. They are currently fawning over a scan of my brain, after all.”

I know this because of a subtle shifting of the clipboard showing a chart of the human mind, and who else would they be talking about outside my door? 

Mr. Stark gets up and walks outside with the stride of royalty. I start inspecting the room in detail. 

An IV, probably means I’m dehydrated, maybe low on sustenance. Yay. There are several machines scattered around, several of which for organ failure. I was in serious danger, or they were worried I would be. There is a nurse watching me personally; they want to observe my condition up close. They let in visitors; I am recovering. 

Excellent. 

I take out my IV. My body can handle it. Brooke startles, then starts to speak, but then just sighs and helps me out of bed. She has figured out I am too stubborn/determined to stop now. 

There is a boom of thunder when I stand up. It makes me jolt, but Natasha just puts a hand gently on my elbow, a signal for support, and I steady myself. 

The doctors outside all freeze when I exit. 

Before, though, they were talking quite excitedly, all at once. 

“We could cure Alzheimer’s-“  
“-change the face of modern medicine-“  
“Revolutionize brain trauma treatment!”  
“-about mental health recovery?”

Rhetoric all look at me at once, including a suddenly very stressed looking Mr. Stark. 

“Hello,” I say. “I assume you are talking about me. How, in detail, could I do what you have mentioned?”

Brooke is behind me, slightly to the left, keeping herself in view. She is talking quietly into her earrings, which makes me wonder if the jewelry of the future is also technology. Natasha has done the same to my right, staying firmly within my peripherals with one hand on my arm. 

“You should be in bed,” Mr. Stark says firmly. I raise an eyebrow. 

“My body has and can handle a lot. I’ll be fine.” I smoothly take the clipboard from a woman’s hands and start to read. 

Unusual levels of blah blah blah, healing at an unprecedented rate, some junk about my blood work and the worship they apparently have deemed it worthy of, and some awe on my cells’ capabilities. 

“This could help people?” I ask while flipping the page. This one has a lot of numbers on it. I don’t even understand a quarter of it. 

“Basically, your cells work and heal themselves at a great speed, like the Captain, but they also do things that shouldn’t be possible. Like correcting genetic mutations, and wrong cell reproduction, and-“

“What your cells can do can cure everything from cancer to every genetic disease known to man,” Mr. Stark says bluntly. “From what I was told.”

Brooke at my side stutters in her movement. 

So do my lungs. I have seen many scientists trying to cure many things, with various tactics and body counts. It has made me suspicious at best and murderous at worst. 

(Needles-)  
(-burning-)  
(-screams.)

I hand back the clipboard politely, turn around, and walk sagely back into my room. I climb back into my bed-ignoring the pain from almost my entire body-and hook myself back up with the machines. 

During all this, I think. 

Changing times. Safety. Chances. Danger. Helping. 

(Running-)  
(-smiling, a woman-)  
(Gestapo-)  
(“-superhero!”)

My thoughts freeze in my skull. Superhero? Why would anyone be saying that word around the time of the Gestapo to me? The Captain would have been a war hero or legend, a myth, by the time it got to us suckers at the other side of the war, perhaps an enemy. 

Superhero…

(Dressed in all black-)  
(-sneaking out-)

Oh. 

Ah. 

I was the superhero. 

This changes things. 

“Uh? Shay, you good?” I realize I have been staring blankly at the wall for at least thirty seconds. 

“Yes,” I say automatically, deep in thought, “My levels are optimal.” The silence that follows allows me to think more. 

So if I was a superhero, where and when? Does this affect the lives I took and the wrongs I did? Make up for it to the ancestors or something? Did I help people? Surely I must have, to have earned the title. 

If I put the time frame where it would make the most sense for me to have reasons to do this-after Mama’s death at the earliest, Auschwitz at the latest-and then factor in when I would have had the strength and the reasoning that comes with age, that would place me in the era of the boarding school. So I was a superhero from eleven to thirteen? 

“Shay,” Brooke says softly. “What are you thinking about?”

“I just realised something about my past,” I say, tilting my head. “Let me think.”

Then of course there’s the issue that got us here- help the scientists or no? Assuming I have the choice (please, please, please, let me have the choice), I don’t know what I want to do. 

What if the scientists hurt me? What if they’re lying? What if I fail somehow?

If they hurt me, I deserve it. And if it will help others, that will make up for it. It is unlikely they are lying, as Mr. Stark seemed to agree with them, and in that event I am in much more danger than that involving testing. If I fail, at least I tried. 

But do I trust them enough to let them do this?

(A man with a syringe in his hand has another strap me to a table-)  
(-biting, hissing, screaming, whatever it takes-)  
(Burning, everything is-)

Little Spider. She is touching me. I flinch back so hard that my IV rips back out of my body. 

I stare up at Natasha. Red hair, grown proportions, guilt. 

I breathe out. Tiredness makes my bones relax, giving it up. 

Nat and Brooke will protect me.

Speaking of Brooke-

“You think a lot,” says the archer. Hawkeye. I look up at him. 

“I suppose,” I say to humor him. Never offend. 

“Are you okay?”

Brooke is in bed with me. At any other point, I would be a mixture of delighted and terrified. Now, I’m just thankful. She has a hand on my thigh comfortingly and her side nestled up gently against me own. Her earrings are talking. 

“No.”

I ignore the pain in my side and lean into Brooke. She wrap and arm around my shoulders, humming something softly. 

“What did you realize?”

Oh, they are still back there. Huh. 

“I was one very adventurous eleven year old.” 

“What?” Brooke asks. Her earrings have stopped talking. Her freckles are like constellations. 

(Don’t share intel.)

Natasha understands,if after a long silence. She always does manage to figure things out eventually. ”It’s okay if you don’t feel safe saying anything,” she says while I try to figure out how to say words without feeling like I’m handing them a knife and exposing my back. 

(Don’t share intel.)

It was repeated constantly. Less constantly than some others, but enough.

“Okay,” I say uncertainly, fingers flexing uneasily. Natasha just hums. 

“That’s fine,” she says easily. “You don’t have to say.”

Brooke is clearly dying to know but is doing her best to cover it up. Hawkeye is doing better than her, but only by a bit. Everyone else still looks curious. 

Mr. Stark walks back into the room. He’s floored and covering it up with confidence. 

“Shay’s cells could help push science and medicine far into the future,” he announces dramatically and also kind of tiredly. 

Everyone looks at me but Natasha. Brooke does it with compassion, everyone else with a mixture of shock and curiosity. 

I don’t know what to do.

What are my objectives here? Without the clear lines of seduce, kill, or some other goal, I’m kind of lost. What do I prioritize? To what end? 

My cells (it’s unclear what those are but I’m guessing a part of my body), if they could truly help people, might begin to make up for my sins. 

But I don’t trust doctors taking whatever it is they need from my body. Haven’t for decades now, no matter how much I faked a mask of calm. 

Does this impact Mr. Stark’s or anyone else’s kindness to me? Are they manipulating me to some end? If so, do I play along?

“Shay,” Little Spider says gently after Hawkeye signs at her in ASL (along the lines of she may be mentally lost like you were) (an excellent vote of confidence if I’ve ever seen one), “You don’t have to do this. You are the main priority. Not just your physical safety, but also your emotional state and everything else to do with you.”

I stare at her. 

That-I don’t know how to even begin to do that. I’m used to looking after me, in the vaguest sense-dodge the bullet, and so on. But to have it as my main prerogative almost feels unnatural. 

May the ancestors grant me luck.

The thought flashes across my mind without my permission. Internally, this startles me enough that it momentarily breaks my concentration on my surroundings. That wasn’t something bad, a fractured memory, or a result of HYDRA, which are my only company within my head. It was just a thought. 

Externally, my breathing stutters once and then continues normally after a millisecond. 

I catch up to the awkward silence in the room too late. What was being discussed? Is there danger? The nurse moved, are they pulling a weapon-?

A quick scan tells me that the only danger is boredom or perhaps a bit of anxiety from the tense silence. 

Brooke climbs into my bed, watching my face for a sliver of pain. I startle, making room for her, but she just shushes me and curls up at my side, between my body and the rail. The warmth, it’s almost comforting. Calming. 

My muscles relax just slightly. 

“Okay,” I say. “Little Spider-well, can you swear that these people won’t hurt me?” I ask timidly. 

Brooke shakes her head rapidly while Nat responds. “I swear on my life and soul.”

“In that case, what do you need from me?”

///

The doctors ran some cotton along my skin, took a fragment of hair, and swabbed the inside of my mouth. 

My memories of HYDRA tell me they should be cutting me open to get at my bones and mind, but instead they ask politely and use cotton of all things. 

Brooke holds my right hand-I refuse to have my left and more dominant useless while something might happen-the whole time. She hums something, a random melody. 

I’m even allowed to keep a knife in one hand. The doctors look at it warily but Brooke says something in a low tone (a variant of “she’s had bad experiences with doctors”) and then they nod and do what they have to quickly and with a thousand questions of consent. 

Within the hour, I’m arguing with Brooke and the Avengers and Co. about where I go after this. 

Huh. 

There seems to be three sides. One, where I go back to “Avengers Tower” and remain safe within said towers several hundred floors. This is presented by a cautious but hopeful Tony Stark and one smiling but surprisingly convincing Hawkeye. The second, where I go wherever I wish, provided it is with supervision and all sorts of other things (including but not limited to regular health checkups, meals, and sleep), presented by Little Spider, Dr. Banner, and Captain Rogers. The final argument is from Brooke, who says softly but rather determinedly that I will always be welcome at her apartment/bakery. (She stumbles a few times on how I would be safe there, but seems rather sure that I would be.) (Which is fair coming from a ‘regular’ girl who has an unusual amount of skill with knives.)

I can’t decide between any of them.

The Tower provides safety, on-hand doctors (I doubt my ability to become ill but after Blake’s death to some sort of fever it seems nice), people who could fight me and potentially win if I get dangerous, and on-hand Natasha, who I will be forcefully catching up with regardless but would be nice to have around. The security would have to be properly vetted, but the Tower is undoubtedly the safest option with the strongest logical fallbacks. 

With choice comes freedom. And freedom...is a rare gift to be treasured. I could go where I wanted, with following security to make sure myself and those around my are safe, and it could be fun to just explore. But there’s also the risks-a team following me could be corrupted, it might make me more paranoid to have them there in the first place, and what if wandering just makes me farther detached from the future? Observing as an outsider is good for learning but bad for inclusionary feelings. 

Brooke’s bakery and apartment offers warmth. The literal type and the kind I’m starting to feel in my chest when I look at Brooke or my Little (now big) Spider. Her twin has only been kind to me, and I assume the mother of both Brooke and Bryn could be no less sweet. But there is little safety to be found, Brooke’s secrets aside. I could eat chocolate, though, and drink coffee and remember more without pressure, and I could feel like a normal teenager, if for as long as they’ll take me. 

I absently gather data on everyone’s arguing styles (long since a habit) while I think on this. The captain seems well-intended but prone to force. Hawkeye doesn’t show his true feelings but puts up a convincing front that makes him much more persuasive. Natasha is blunt, as always, giving you the facts and what she thinks in plain terms, with only a hint of ‘you’re and idiot’ to be found in her tone among the patience. Dr. Banner is soft-spoken but stubborn, saying things nicely while leading you to the truth you may not be ready for. Brooke is calm, but I can tell it’s a front-whenever someone gets too close or speaks too loudly, she tenses and her voice becomes slightly shaky. Most of the time, she says what she thinks, but occasionally stumbles on things she wasn’t prepared for. Fair, as she is young. 

I don’t know what to do. 

Safety, freedom, or the weird warmth in my chest I’m pretty sure most people call affection? 

Finally, Nat breaks up the argument which is quickly evolving into a shouting match. “Who don’t we ask Shay?”

Everyone is suddenly looking at me. What do I say? I, for the first time in decades, don’t know what to do. 

My gaze flicks from face to face, most of which are varying degrees of guilty and shocked for some reason. 

“I don’t know,” I say, and it feels like sting my soul for them to see. 

My Spider looks thoughtful. 

“Okay,” Brooke says. “That’s fine. How about we compromise?”

“Compromise?” Hawkeye asks. “What would that be?”

“Well, either we could take aspects from all of the above, or we could trade off. You know,” she says, at everyone’s confused looks. “Swap. Rotating schedule.”

I think on this. If I could stay within the Tower’s safety, with the offered freedom and warmth, I might finally...relax. 

“Okay,” I say quietly. Then, softer, “Okay.”

Brooke smiles at me like the sun and then moves forward towards me, her arms wrapping around me. I stiffen at the containment, but then realize that she isn’t restraining me; this is a hug. I remember hugs. (Kind of.) 

But then she’s pulling back, just when I start to consider hugging back like I used to. 

“Sorry,” she says. 

I go to say it’s okay, but something stops me. It startled me, and it probably would have been better if she asked. 

“It’s okay?” I say. I intended it as a statement, but oh well. 

Then Dr. Banner’s bracelet vibrates. He looks down at it in shock while I stiffen. 

“Thor’s coming back,” the doctor says with a tone thick with shock. 

The group around me (except one Brooke) explodes with noise and movement. 

Hawkeye cheers. My Nat smiles hugely, which is about all you can ask from her. Mr. Stark says something that makes Hawkeye laugh that I don’t get even vaguely. Dr. Banner is smiling and whispering quietly to Captain Rogers, both of whom have a blush on their faces. 

This tells me a lot. 

They all care deeply, clearly behind that of a return of a teammate or colleague. And with what I learned earlier, that could mean-especially with Nat smiling so eagerly and everyone having a slight blush-that they’re all-

A bolt of lightning hits the concrete two foot to my right, but if lighting was round and had a two foot diameter. I have a gun pointed at the thing and a knife out within five seconds. 

The light fades, which is good, because even with my eyes, I’m pretty sure this isn’t good for me. Standing in the center of the circle is a man dressed in armor that is a mixture of leather (or something similar) and metal. He has a dramatic red cape that falls to the floor and golden hair to his shoulders. He is large and muscular, threateningly so. My muscles are that fluid form of tense that comes with every battle. 

“Woah!” Dr. Banner says, along with a majority of the rest of the Avengers with similar concerns, “Shay-”   
“Laurel!” Spider yells. 

That’s the code for an armed ally; lavender for unarmed and laurel for armed, both of them safe to approach. The safety on my gun flicks on, but I don’t lower my aim. 

“That’s Thor,” Brooke says to my side, gently taking the knife from my grasp. I let her because she is good with knives and deserves to be armed, and I have extras anyway. “He’s an Avenger, too.”

“Verily!” the man declares. “I am indeed sworn to protect this realm! You seem to be an ally of ours that I have yet to be acquaintanced with, I am Thor, son of Odin and Frigga, brother of Loki, Heir to the throne of Asgard, and noble warrior in the name of the Avengers! It is an honor to meet another warrior of the noble ranks of Midgard!” 

What?

“Okay,” I say. My gun lowers hesitantly, but I track his position very closely. 

Dr. Banner tackles Thor in a hug as soon as I lower my weapon, with Hawkeye close behind him. Mr. Stark walks right up and does a handshake of sorts, except with forearms touching instead of palms, and then starts talking away with a large grin. Natasha walks right up to him, giving me a slight nod when she passes me, and greets Thor with a kiss to the cheek and a few soft words. The Captain skips all the reservations and kisses Thor full on in the mouth with an air of relief. 

Yeah, they are all definitely dating. That’s new to the century, I guess. 

Brooke makes a soft sound next to me. Then she says, quietly, but loud enough that it is obvious to my enhanced hearing (it would be barely audible otherwise), “I wish I could kiss Shay like that.”

The corner of my mouth twitches without my permission. She thinks I don’t want to kiss her? 

I take her wrist quietly, slowly, and pull her close to me.

“Why don’t you?”

Brooke flushes red, across her entire face. It’s adorable. “Uh-you-”  
“Enhanced hearing,” I say softly, “Difficult not to hear.”

She leans forward. 

Now, I’ve kissed before. None of them sent fireworks off in my mind like this. Bright flashes of emotion, happiness, even, and she’s so soft against me, and-

She pulls away, smiling softly. “You’re a good kisser,” she says. She is still very, very red.

I flush, and say, “You are too.”

Hawkeye catcalls from behind us. I make a rude gesture without looking back at him. Mr. Stark and Hawkeye laugh and then yell when I hear Nat start to hit them for their behavior. 

Brooke is soft. It’s the only word I can think of to describe her, except maybe cute. 

My arm wind their way around her waist, and we seperate. Brooke is still flushed when she speaks.

“Is it okay if I drop by to visit? Because as your girlfriend, I’m going to.”

Girlfriend. 

“Absolutely.”


	21. Plasma Swords, Identity Reveals, and Super Villains

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Look,,, this may have been from the ps4 Spidey game. Sue me. I watch one lets play and my writer brain runs off with it. Enjoy!
> 
> Triggers  
> Look, you know the deal  
> guns  
> fighting  
> swords  
> serious injury  
> sedation  
> fighting  
> angst

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry,,,? Here's Spark's climax. Lemme know if it's any good. See you next time, loves!

I wrestle my phone from Dad, who is still yelling into the thing. Petal helps me break it up without hurting him or my phone while Brooke jumps out the window. She’s probably gone to do superhero things. 

“Who are you?” I demand into the phone. 

“You can call me Mr. Negative, sweetheart,” he drawls into the phone.

My blood freezes in my veins. I’ve only heard of him through word of mouth; other villains explaining their actions were in fear of his wrath, taking out his bases, criminals and gangs who were working with him. 

And my dad was working with him. With a supervillain.

Good Lord.

“I don’t want to work with you,” I say into the phone, trying my best to hide my contempt.  
“Shame,” the man responds. He sounds almost familiar, but at the same time distorted. A public figure? Using a voice modifier? I see Izzy is already running the voice through records to no avail. “Your talents could be well-used.”

I hang up the call.

My father is ashen. I turn to him, studying him. I try to figure out why he would work for a supervillain. I mean, sure, Dad isn’t buddying up with the government (what blue collar worker is?), but he doesn’t hate them. And certainly not enough to hurt people in the process. 

“Dad-” I’m interrupted. Partly by Dad speaking and partly by a voice crack.  
“Look, baby, we needed the money, and I just-you shouldn’t have to worry about that! And it’s not likely we’ll get lucky suddenly, and it’s not like I can ask you to just give up on your dreams-” his hands are waving, he’s clearly distraught, but-  
“So you can get arrested?!” I demand. “Dad! Do you think I value my career over your life? Your place in my life?”  
He flinches, then steps forward, like he’s going to hug me. “Sweetheart-”  
“No!” I yell. Petal gracefully steps out of the way of my rapidly moving hands. “Dad, I can handle it! I’ll work extra jobs, I’ll get scholarships, I’ll-”  
“This is killing you!” Dad yells. “You can’t sleep, you barely eat, you’re working yourself to death!”

I step back, taking a sharp breath in.

“What did you do, Dad?” I ask, my voice quiet and hard.  
Dad’s eyes widen. “Baby, no, I didn’t mean it like-”  
“Tell me what you did!” 

Dad stares at me. The few feet between us might as well be miles, crossed so suddenly. His hands lower to his sides, shaking slightly. “Robbed a few banks. Got in with people I shouldn’t have. Mr. Negative, he offered money, lots of it, I just-” he swallows. “I had to get Spider-Man out of the way, follow a few orders.”

“What is he going to do, Dad?” I ask. “Bombings? World War Three? Mass murder?”

Dad looks away. “I don’t know. Something to do with some sort of gas, or something.”

“People will get hurt, Dad,” I say. “They will.”

He looks at me, dead in the eyes. He studies me, like he’s trying to memorise my features. “I would have gotten you out before anything happened.”

“Millions of people live in New York, Dad!” I say sharply. “What about them? My friends, my coworkers? The superheroes who keep people safe? Do they matter less?”

“I had no other options, Spark, baby,” he says pleadingly. “I can’t just let you-”

I turn around, open the door. I slam it closed after Petal hustles out after me. Petal looks to me, her face conflicted. The bracelet on her wrist is the female type. 

“Spark-” she starts, looking hesitant.  
“No,” I respond instantly. “Petal, he hurt people!”  
“Yeah, to look out for you!” Petal says. She rolls her eyes. “Come on, talk on the top of the Empire State.”  
I huff but follow. It takes us around fifteen to twenty minutes to get there, which was probably Petal’s intentions-let me think by myself for a bit, and get to a place where we’re less likely to be overheard. 

We sit side-by-side, legs dangling over the edge, with the bottoms of our masks pulled up so we can see each other talking-Petal’s hearing aids don’t work as well with this much windy interference. It means I have to look at her and speak normally, which can be challenging when I’m so emotional like this, but whatever. Privacy. 

“What are you thinking?” she asks, shouting. I can’t tell if it’s because of wanting to be heard over the wind or because of her limited volume control when her hearing aids are out of the picture. 

I sigh and lie back, but then jerk back up because ow, building top decor is not good for my spine. Petal smirks but doesn’t comment, which is about the most I can ask from her. 

“Conflicted,” I mutter into the wind. Then I say it again, normally, when I see Petal doesn’t understand.  
She nods, fingers messing with the edge of her mask. “That’s fair. I mean, the actions themselves weren’t great, but do the intentions behind them make them good? Or, at least, better?”  
I groan. “Onyx is rubbing off on you. Too much philosophy.”  
Petal laughs. “First off, my boyfriend is the perfect balance of everything, philosophy included,” she says. I agree, because Onyx is also the member of our group most into music, theatre, and memes. So, I guess. “Even if he was, honestly it just might improve my grades so I’m not against it. Second, that’s not the point.”  
I snort, smiling. Then I realise this was a ploy on Petal’s end to make me smile and hit her teasingly. “Hey! This is serious!”  
Petal nods and very mournfully puts one finger on her upper lip. Without the suit, it would be mildly funny. With it on, it’s hilarious. “Yes, this is a very serious conversation on very serious topics. Your point, dear madame?”

I pout but ignore her for the most part. “It’s just...Dad just, he’s part of something I’ve been out here fighting. You know?”

“No,” Petal says bluntly. I wince. Her parents are dead, along with her relatives, hence the foster system. Tragedy, and all that stuff, extended by America’s horrible way of coping with orphaned children. 

“Sorry,” I offer. “Not cool.”

Petal shrugs, crossing her legs. “Old demons, my friend. Your demons just popped up and wacked you over the head, hence my presence.” 

I snort. Petal has always had a creative way of phrasing things. “It’s just weird, Petal. And kind of illegal, and with grey morals.”

Petal blows out a breath. “I think it’s because you are the most important thing to him. I mean, your mom died a while back, right? And before that, she would have been the most important thing in his life. Now you are, so he’s willing to do a lot for you. Including breaking the law and his own moral code.”

I roll myself into a ball, chin on my knees and looking out over the skyline. It’s still bright out, the clouds look close enough to touch, and I’m in emotional turmoil. Petal’s point makes sense, I just don’t like to think about it. It’s not that I’m against breaking the law-the law can be made by cruel people with questionable intentions. But hurting people? For me? Not exactly the best.

I wonder if I could ask who he stole from. Izzy would be able to find the info if I can’t, if I just hack the bank. If they’re below a certain amount, I’ll just sneakily add some cash back in. As for everything else, I can’t really help. 

The silence is heavy. Petal considers me. 

“I think having a dad is a little more important than not, like, for your life, and the influence it has on you,” she says quietly. “But you should also take into account their actions. So, like, if you have a father, yay, but if he’s abusive, bad, you know? And going by that, I don’t think this disqualifies your dad in the grand Dad Olympics.”

That was such a weird way to say something so serious. 

“Might knock him down a few places, though,” I say, laughing almost sadly.  
Petal smirks, “At least you’re not Harry Osborn. You remember that his dad was the great big lizard dude?”  
I snicker. “You mean the Green Goblin? Yeah, I remember. He’s definitely got last place.”  
“Totally, dude,” Petal replies. “With your dad, he’s still in, like, the top fifty, right? So all you gotta do is adjust. Like, yeah, this changes things, but don’t cut him off. Don’t be without a dad, man.”

‘Like I am’ is left unsaid. I don’t pull it up, because Petal is trying her best to say something really private to help me, and I’m not going to make it more painful than it needs to be by calling out her jokes. 

I nod. “Can we just stay up here, though? I don’t want to-” I pause, not letting my voice crack. “I don’t think I can handle it right now.”

Petal nods. “Yeah. Wanna hear about Onyx’s new poems? He’s thinking of putting them in a book and selling them!”

///

Petal is a good distraction. She’s an expert at it- talking about her boyfriend is an endless topic, as well as her frustrations with school, the government/foster system, and her making jokes about ridiculous villains we’ve fought over the years (the whole two and half of them, max). 

But we have to come down eventually. Petal humors me and lets us go on a short patrol together. It’s good to get my frustrations out, even if it is just by taking out a would-be rapist after Petal says a one liner. It gets rid of some of my built-up electrical energy, too.

And then there’s a lightning strike that is definitely not a lightning strike uncomfortably close to what looks like a medical building. Petal and I are about to head over as fast as we can (namely, by Petal tucking me under her arm like a football and having plants gently yeet us across the city, like Spidey with his webs but with a lot less predictability) but then simultaneously, there’s an explosion in another part of the city.

“Is that just me, or was that uncomfortably close to the city hall?” I ask.  
Petal nods and tugs her mask on fully. “They’re targeting public buildings.”  
We both grimace to the other; one emergency or another? Petal points to the explosion and says, “More possible casualties,” and off we go.

The street...it’s in monochrome, with some weird dude pacing and shouting at Spider-Man, who is apparently already on the scene. He is also fighting people with glowing white eyes and void creatures made of pitch black shadows. 

I reach for the energy of the shadow creatures- electricity is my favorite, but I can vaguely figure out other forms of energy. Such as whatever the dude is using to manipulate these people and shadows. 

The energy behind it makes my head flare with pain. It’s wholly new, almost uncontrollable, and wild. I decide to do this the easier way and just smack the nearest mind-controlled person with enough electricity to temporarily knock them out. 

More explosions rock the street, and for some reason the dude is still talking.

“-there are similar bombs around the city! Subways, roads, public buildings, parks! How many will die in the first phase, Spider-Man? It is to create a new world, sacrifices for-”

Petal cuts him off by shoving a thorny vine around him and having it strangle his waist like a boa constrictor. The shadows move to untangle their master, but I throw bolts of electricity to block them. They cringe away from the light produced, so now I know what my job is, I guess.

“Hey, is that Mr. Negative?” Petal yells from her place of taking out some more mind controlled people. “‘Cause the name would be appropriate for a man who can control shadows and color!” 

“What’s the second phase?” I yell at Mr. Negative. He just laughs in a really creepy way and sends a wall of shadow right at my face, knocking me back into a wall.

Then the Avengers show up. Brooke is nervously following behind, looking conflicted, leading a heavily bandaged Shay by the hand. Before I can register these facts, Spidey is flying on top of me, with a spectacular landing at a speed of several miles per hour. 

He slams into me with a thump and a wheeze from both of us. It grinds me farther into the ground and makes him knock his head on the concrete. I take a second to breathe, c’mon, and then haul to my feet. Spidey has already used a web to gain his balance, using it as a rope to get to his feet, and is now profusely apologising. 

I wave him off, looking around. There’s a flash of movement in my peripherals and I manage to make a bolt of energy just in time to be knocked back off my feet by a shadow creature. 

I’m hauled up by Iron Man himself. He places me on my feet, gives me a mock salute, and turns around, already firing a repulsor blast. My chest squeezes and releases-I thought for a second he might have recognized me, but no, he was just helping out a fellow hero. I’m safe. 

I take a breath-something my lungs sorely appreciate at this point-and start knocking out more of the mind controlled crowd. Looking around, the Avengers are in full swing-even Thor’s here. Black Widow is taking out civilians and Hawkeye is knocking them unconscious with tranqs while the rest try to go for Mr. Negative.

Then there’s another explosion. 

This one knocks me right into a building. I fly into a brick wall, and then scrape down the thing before landing on the concrete and a pile of shattered glass. Ow. Unfortunately, if I don’t get up, myself and a good chunk of other people will probably die, so I get up. Along the way, I discover I have gained a broken nose and arm. I set my nose with my free hand and sigh tiredly at my other arm. 

I look around and stop dead.

Mr. Negative is right in front of me. Good Lord. 

I try to climb the building behind me to get away from him, but I’m not fast enough. Her shadows grab me around the waist and tug me down, holding me secure and five feet off the ground in front of the dude.

He has a white suit and hair, with skin almost entirely black. Black tie, creepy glowing eyes. Also, a maniac grin on his face. Joy.

He’s talking again. It barely gets through the ringing in my ears. “Superheroes, what a strange phenomena. They gain nothing, and yet put themselves in danger. Regardless, one of the greatest damages you can do to them is to reveal them. Hunted down by the cops, forced to hide, out of the way.”

A notification pops up in my vision that Izzy has sealed the mask to the main body of the suit and that my suit is currently losing integrity by the second because of the squeezing of the shadows. 

A knife appears in the dude’s weird hand. It’s made of black oblivion, but somehow glowing a bright white that hurts to look at. I lean away the best I can, because regardless of the color, it kinda looks like it’s made of plasma, which is not the best for the health of my skin.

Next thing I know, Izzy is screaming in my ear, my chest is burning but somehow simultaneously freezing, and then I’m blinking in the ample firelight produced by the explosions (Izzy is no longer audible). 

My slightly bloody blonde hair drips into my vision, I can feel the source at my temple. I’m probably covered in bruises, my suit’s destroyed, and I’m officially a criminal. Panic and stress unlike anything recreatable with even exam season wells up and me and makes my chest physically ache as my too-fast mind spins through all the possible ways this could go horribly, horribly wrong and already has and all the consequences for that-

Stress reaction that I happen to have: let out a whole lot of electricity.  
Property of life: if you shock it with enough electricity, it will probably let you go because it has bigger issues.  
Problem with this tactic: it leaves me half unconscious and slumped on the concrete, because my body pretty much just used up everything it had. 

I focus on breathing when Brooke runs up to me. There’s a lot of yelling, and screaming, and moving shadows and light, and Mr. Stark is looking at me in a way that is both broken and shocked but I can’t because there is so much pain I can barely move my chest to breathe. Shay is next to Brooke, for some reason, keeping perfect pace. Brooke moves down, in my hazy vision, but then Shay unflinchingly hoists me up and carries me in a reverse fireman’s under one arm. 

My chest burns and also freezes, I think I have some broken ribs, which may be why it feels like I have acid in my chest, and my entire body aches with cuts and bruises. I gasp and jerk when Shay picks me up, her arm putting pressure on my now-ample bruises. 

Shay ignores me, just getting another knife out with one hand to defend us as she makes her way from the street. 

Shay is...disturbingly good at bringing them down, unconscious on the sidewalk. Especially with Mr. Negative, who she seems to consider childish, and quickly outsmarts by just tossing a tear gas canister his way. We’re off the battle field in about three minutes, or maybe hours, time is getting wonky. 

There’s a flash, for some reason, but I’m just barely holding onto consciousness and don’t have enough free brain cells to rub together to figure out why. Shay shifts me, stowing away her knife in favor of holding a hand in front of my face for some reason. Am I tilting, maybe? Gravity is also getting a little wack.

In fact, the world sways, Shay cusses in some language I don’t know but might be German, and I’m staring at the sky. My brain skipped the stuff in between, until I’m on a rooftop and trying to keep breathing. 

Why is Dr. Banner here? Oh, he has a needle….

And suddenly everything that was fuzzy and nauseating is a nice warm blanket protecting me from the world. I’m warm, and nothing’s wrong, and all I have to do is lie here and chill. I giggle, finding this funny. 

I must drift in and out of consciousness, or maybe my functioning just pauses sometimes like bad WiFi, but I get small moments of lucidity between long stretches of warm blanket time.

On a rooftop, Shay collecting my limbs to try to pick me up. Talking to Brooke, who now has her suit on, and then she’s jumping off the building and gone. Shay talking to me about something...my favorite food? Or something? Why is that important…? Something about concussions...? 

Huh.

There’s more flashes, yelling, questions. Then I’m somewhere with a white ceiling, and more yelling, but of a different kind. Shay hands me to a person in white (a nurse?) and then I’m in a bed. It’s kind of comfortable, but very crisp and white, and everyone is still yelling, and I still hurt. Suddenly there’s a needle in my arm and-

Oh. 

///

I wake up loopy as all heck. Like, the good stuff. I can barely feel my toes, let alone the reason why my chest is so heavily bandaged. I also find the argueing going on in the hallway hilarious, for some reason, so I’m giggling when the door opens. 

There’s Ember’s red hair but on an older lady (her mom, my brain tells me somewhere in the muffled nonsense I am currently), and there’s Mr. Stark in a sharp suit, and Shay with her own bandages but looking fierce, and for some reason Ray.  
“Look, the public knows her identity-” Mr. Stark says as Ray rushes to my side. He’s talking to the redhead lady, Ms. Collins, and she certainly gave her daughter some of her anger issues, because you could toast marshmallows over her temper. 

“I understand that, Mr. Stark,” she growls, “But she doesn’t need to be associated with the Avengers, which happens if she stays here. My mansion is plenty secure and can provide the medical care she needs.” 

Ray is talking to me at the same time. “Spark, are you okay? Do you need anything, does anything hurt?” 

I giggle. “Nope! I’m greeeat, Ray-Ray,” I say in a sing-song.  
Shay sighs and types something in a machine. Maybe turning down my morphine, rude. Mr. Stark and Ms. Collins look up at me, as if shocked I am in the room I woke up in, and then rush forward too, argument forgotten. 

“Spark,” Mr. Stark says gravely. “The public knows your identity and you’ve been seriously injured. How do you want to handle this? I’ve had the team go collect your father, they’re grabbing him now, but we need a basic plan. I get you’re like, loopy, at this point, but I don’t want to do something you’d be against completely.”

Shay gives him a look that is very disbelieving and then pointedly presses enter on the computer. Ms. Collins looks to be on the same train of thought.

“Mr. Stark, she’s not in a state to-”  
Mr. Stark turns to her, cold as ice. “She needs a say. I’m not doing anything she’s against because of rash behavior.”  
Ms. Collins huffs. “She’s not in a proper state to say anything while keeping in mind all the facts and her options.  
Ray nods. “Spark, I know this is going to be hard, but what do you want to happen?”

And let me tell you, my big smart galaxy brain has been thinking on this for a good bit of time. 

“I wanna go to college,” I mutter. “I wanna have money and eat n’ sleep prope’ly and not think I’m worthless and work ‘o many jobs and I wan’ my dad not to be a supervillain’s henchmen because we need the money and I want-”

“What?” Ray asks. “Hold up, love, what?”

Unfortunately, I’m high as a kite and also stubborn, so I just keep going. “-Shay to be safe n’ I wan’, I want-”

Shay places a hand over my mouth. “Thank you, Spark,” she says kindly. “But I’m going to stop you there, as I believe you might be divulging secrets you wouldn’t be thrilled that we know while under full control of your mental faculties.” 

My brain kind of trips over itself, and my forehead scrunches up. “Wa?”  
Ray looks shell-shocked, but taps three times on my arm. Our secret signal for ‘I love you’. It makes my chest warm.

“Sleepy,” I mutter, slurring the word almost beyond recognition. 

“Okay, Spark, love,” Ray says softly. Last time he used that tone he was trying to convince me to eat a sandwich over facetime. “What do you want to do about your identity being revealed?”

Ms. Collins, who I had entirely forgotten about, huffs. “She’s not nearly lucid enough to-”  
“Shhhh!” Mr. Stark says. “Yes, Spark?”

“I… dunno…? Uh...protect dad? And, uh, not get…” my brain loads as I try to find the word while so tired and also high on The Good Stuff. “Arrested? Or, uh…”

It’s so warm. And Ray’s next to me. Shay’s safe. Ms. Collins is looking out for me with Mr. Stark. I think my dad is safe. And I’m so tired…

I fall asleep quickly, for a change, without realizing.


	22. In Which Shay Can't Escape HYDRA, Medical Issues, Or One Nicholas Fury

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You guys know the drill. Shay has a fun time (for real, mostly, I swear). 
> 
> Triggers  
> Mentions of:  
>  non con body modification  
> gun violence  
> Gore  
> Hospitals?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wassup, enjoy the chapter. This fic is winding down, should be done in a max of three chapters. Happy reading~

My hand is in Brooke’s, which is both incredible and incredibly stressful. Every fifteen seconds or so, my anxiety pops up and shouts in the back of my head that I’m in DANGER and Brooke’s in DANGER and must get OUT. And all I’m doing is sitting in a waiting room, waiting for Spark to wake up. The doctors already informed me of Spark’s condition (not that they needed to, I already knew, but the confirmation was nice), including the plasma burn across the top of her chest (dangerously close to the neck, the blood in critical arteries-), the broken ribs, the punctured lung, the broken bones in her feet, legs, and arms, the slight concussion, the various bruises and scrapes. Overall, not fun, but she’ll live, especially with the medical I, Doctor Banner, and the medical team provided. 

I am also thinking intensely, as usual.

Spark’s identity has been revealed. And I’m not the most versed in modern laws, but I’m pretty sure vigilantism is still illegal. That means she’ll need some sort of legal defense or perhaps literal defense.

(My knives find themselves tucked up my sleeves and ready for action.)

In a quick routine scan, I spot one security camera pointed to the lobby, one towards the hallway, and another coming out from the office. The receptionist from within her little office is typing away at her computer while humming to herself (popular pop song, from the sound of it). It is just Brooke and I, and the rest of the losers in our newly expanded party all got at least partially beat up in our little outing. Most of it was light, but the doctors dragged them all off for decontamination and treatment anyway. 

They are all excellent fighters, but I am nonetheless concerned. What if there is some sort of betrayal, or an accident? I wouldn’t be able to help. And I certainly don’t trust the doctors here.

(It’s why Brooke bandaged up the cut on my arm so gently earlier.)

I wonder, fleetingly, if this is my fault. I am, after all, a danger, a monster. And if I wasn’t here, the Avengers wouldn’t have already been up and about and tired and slightly injured. Mr. Stark would have more sleep and less stress, meaning more functionality. 

Brooke, next to me, is bouncing her leg and looking very worried. Her earrings are talking again.

“Why do your earring speak to you?” I ask. “No one elses’ do that.”  
Brooke startles and then flushes. “You can hear that?” she asks surprisedly.  
“Yes,” I say.  
Brooke stares at me. Her earrings are informing her (and me, at a lower volume) that the earrings are talking at a maximum of 5 decibels, which should only be audible to the human ear within a very short range.   
“Well, earrings,” I say, “I suppose I’m not human.”  
Brooke stares at me more. “Really?”   
I shrug. “Is Captain Rogers human?”  
This leaves Brooke deep in thought. 

“Regardless, why are the earrings producing human speech?” I ask.  
“Oh!” Brooke says, looking up at me suddenly. “That’s Izzy. She’s an AI.”

I do not know what that is. I don’t even know if it’s common knowledge in the future. What am I supposed to respond with?

‘Izzy’ is now explaining in Brooke’s ear that computer programs were probably beyond my knowledge, let alone complex AIs. This does not help matters. 

Brooke launches into an explanation, filled with references I don’t get that she then has to explain too, and then wandering off into her obscure knowledge of the makeup of a computer she knows from reading ‘the wiki’. 

I understand none of it and watch her with a small smile and polite ‘hmmm’s and ‘of course’s. 

Mr. Hawkeye walks into the room at one point with his arm in a sling, laughs, and walks right back out. Brooke looks confused and then continues on her rambling about texting etiquette, which is where the topic of conversation has wandered to at this point. 

Eventually, when we have managed to get to the concept of online shopping (which I also don’t get, surely the effort to produce a system like that wouldn’t be worth the customers’ ease?), Nat walks in and gathers us and brought us to a meeting room. 

There was a shiny wooden table that became almost blinding under the intense lighting running along the center of the table. There’s a potted plant in one corner, and a white board and what looks what Brooke described as a projector, and some really bland flooring and wallpaper. The Avengers are sitting around the tables in large leather chairs. All of them have various bandages and casts or slings. Nat, of course, only has a slight scratch on one arm, as shown through a rip in her black leather. 

The thing that makes me take my weapons out is the man with dark skin, an eyepatch, and several exposed and hidden weapons on his person. I point the gun at him to no response while wielding the knife defensively, both ready to throw and stab on a dime. Brooke gently takes the knife out of my hand. I let her because she is a fighter with knives and deserves to be armed as much as I. I have spares anyway. 

Brooke holds the knife loosely, but I can see the fight in her in the tension in her shoulders and the forced calm on her face. 

“What is this?” she asks for both of us. 

“A debriefing,” the man with the eyepatch says without any reaction to the armed new additions to the room. “I’m Director Fury of SHIELD, and organisation of the US government responsible for the safety of the country by looking into the more supernatural dangers.”

This does not make me put my weapons down. In fact, I take another knife out. “SHIELD?” I say. “You are the director of SHIELD?”

“Yes,” Director Fury says, his hands laced in front of him. “Would you sit, now? We have a lot to get through.”

“Indeed,” I say. “But I’m not telling you anything.”

HYDRA and SHIELD might as well be synonyms by now, or perhaps parasite and host, if the host was close to death. 

“Actually, this isn’t a debriefing, so you don’t have to,” Mr. Stark says dramatically while messing around on his flat machine with a screen on it. He’s probably playing a stupid game to keep up the look of being unconcerned and distracted. Smart man. 

Captain Rogers nods, his gaze only focusing on Mr. Stark’s in-hand machine for a second. Then he moves on, all business in a completely different way. Upfront, bold, and willing to stand up for other’s rights at the drop of a hat. 

Nat’s just scary, as per usual. Mr. Clint is nothing but humor, which I suspect is covering up for the way he seems to be taking in everything in the room. One doesn’t become a master spy easily, I suppose. 

Dr. Banner is just kind of sitting. I sit next to him, because in a fight it might be disastrous if the Hulk came out in here and he would need the protection if he managed to keep himself on the correct side of the color wheel. 

Brooke sits next to me like she expects a bomb to go off at any minute. Which, when dealing with Eyepatch over here, me, the Avengers, and whatever the reason she’s so good with knives, is probably wise. 

I look at the three main players in the room at the same time. (Nat has my back, so she doesn’t need to be scanned.) Mr. Stark is pretending to be uncaring to annoy someone he dislikes. Captain Rogers is treating this like a business meeting in which he’s delivering bad news. Eyepatch just looks grumpy.

“And what kind of meeting is this, exactly, Stark?” he growls. 

Mr. Stark barely glances up, but I catch the laughter in his eyes when he does. “Our two week’s notice, my dear government ghost agent.”

That, apparently, was not expected by either me or the man some fool decided to name Fury. (He’s clearly a Grumpy.) 

So the Avengers work underneath SHIELD. This throws several things into question-the Avenger’s alliances behind closed doors, Nat’s spectrum of knowledge on this particular topic, why they’re working as a band of mercenaries.

I watch Director Fury very carefully. My knives are hidden up my sleeves, but only by the space of a breath. He looks at Mr. Stark very sharply. “What do you mean, Stark?”

“Surely you must be acquainted with employees quitting by now, Fury,” Stark says dismissively. I can see the way that, behind the sunglasses on his face, he is watching Fury. He’s probably typing nonsense on the machine thing. “Consider this our reverse-pink-slip. Our dramatic exit. Maybe even the good old finger to the face and then maniacal laughter as the door slams behind us.”

I wince internally. I understand the game Mr. Stark is playing, but what if Fury attacks?

Captain Rogers clears his throat before the Director can speak again. “We are willing to work with SHIELD in the future,” he says diplomatically, “And occasionally help you out in exchange for intel or something of the sort. But we are no longer working underneath you, but with you, effective immediately.”

Brooke looks uneasy. I shift so she’s not so clearly within Fury’s sight, scanning the room for hidden cameras or weapons. There’s a slight red light in one corner and a tiny version of the barrel of a gun in the other. Thankfully, I’m already positioned so whatever would happen to come out would hit me instead of Brooke (who is an unknown variable and therefore I’m working under the assumption that she would be the least well prepared to take a bullet/tranq/other swiftly moving projectiles). 

I do happen to, however, take the liberty of putting a gun in one hand instead of a knife so I could destroy the thing with a single shot. 

Fury looks pissed, so I think this is warranted. He does have enough self-control for a Director, though; it’s hardly noticeable. (Except to me.) 

The room is the type of tense you sense, not see. Captain Rogers, in a half-hearted attempt to keep the peace, continues. “We are withdrawing from SHIELD due to increased freedom, the chance of political corruption lowering, and to exit from your more controlling aspects when considering the Avengers’ allies and other matters.”

Well. Political corruption is right. Do they know? Or is this coincidental?

“I’m sorry?” the Director says icily. “We give you allies, not take them away. We-”  
“Stop us from helping when we could and then send us out like attack dogs,” Steve says. 

Natasha’s head tilt shows me that she’s trying not to give anything away, but in agreement. Mr. Clint is hesitantly leaning forward, like he’s going to argue himself. 

“And political corruption?” Fury asks. “SHIELD is an organisation that barely exists. This is as good as it gets when working with the government and avoiding agendas.”

“No,” I say.

Everyone’s head spins to me. 

I shouldn’t have said anything, but I’ve left too many lies in the open. Brooke is sweating next to me, so I cover her more completely; she might feel more secure with me taking up all the limelight. 

“What?” Fury demands. “Stark, who are these two?”

Brooke shrinks in her chair. I expand in mine, looking Director Fury in the eyes.

“I’m Shay Li,” I say, “I was a civilian in World War Two Germany who was brought to Auschwitz and experimented on with one of the original versions of the supersoldier serum by HYDRA in the camp. I was then brought to their main operation as a tool to use. Recently, I broke through seven-almost eight-decades of torture and literal mind control to help the Avengers. I was the world’s first superhero at twelve years old, trying to stop the Gestapo. If you want to doubt my intel or my right to be sitting here, you can try me.”

Brooke (I can sense this) looks like she’s been slapped. Similar to everyone around the table.

“Because you are the head of a spy organisation,” I continue, “It would probably be useful to know my intel. So, in exchange for all the safety you can give me-papers, an identity, back up if I need it-I want you to let the Avengers sever their agreement with you and start working as their own independent organisation, as well as anything else they wish, within reason.”

Mr. Stark is pale. This is not how he intended this to go.

“I would also like to mention that there are very few individuals within your intelligence organisation that are not loyal to HYDRA,” I say casually. “I will give you the names of as many as I can remember-which is more than the average HYDRA goon-in exchange for an alliance with yourself and your organisation, with the same applying to the Avengers.”

I breathe deeply, trying to keep my cool, tilting my chin up in a challenging stare. This is the most information I’ve willingly divulged in decades. But it will keep myself, the Avengers, and hopefully the world at large. 

Fury has gone as pale as his dark skin will allow. So have a few other people. I just paste on my confident mask and lean forward, starking Fury straight in the eye.

“Haven’t you noticed? The slight movements of beliefs, the slow change of operations. They’re planning the fall of SHIELD, Director.”

I take out a pen, snatching a paper from Nat that she hands me without hesitation. I start writing names down.

“I will in turn give the names of major political figures and lone canons. Mr. Stark will get a list of those within his company that I can remember. Do we have a deal, Director?”

I start writing, beginning with Mr. Stark’s list. Head of Production, Chairman Lewis, Christopher Smith, PR Head…

You could hear a pin drop. It’s not healthy to force a director of a intell organisation’s hand like this, but nothing much in my life is safe anymore. Besides, this will help. Begin to atone for my sins. 

“Yes,” is ground out. 

“Excellent.” I point at Mr. Stark with my free right hand, which is not scribbling away. I assume you have a way to contact Director Fury. I’ll give this to him while I’m done. Work out your agreements.”

They go on to talk about a farm, apparently belonging to one Hawkeye and his wife and children (three of them, huh), the Avengers’ relations with SHIELD and therefore the US government, etcetera, etcetera. 

By the time I finish, I have five pieces of paper front and back to give to the Director and two and a half for Mr. Stark. While the handwriting is not the smallest, this certainly attests for something worrying. 

“It’s been nice meeting you, Director,” I say. “Go kill the Nazis, as we apparently all have to do throughout the centuries. Have a nice day.”

I open the door for him, wave him through with a smile, close the door, and then shoot both the camera and gun in their respective corners. Brooke jumps as sparks rain down from both.

“Sniper in the wall,” I say, “And a camera in the corner.”

“Right,” she says in a squeaky voice. 

Then I collapse against the wall, shaking, my breathing harsh, my walls crashing down. Why is saying things about myself so difficult? 

Brooke is by my side in an instant, sitting next to me along the wall, thigh to thigh, shoulder to shoulder, pressing against me lightly. She hesitantly winds an arm around my shoulders, and suddenly, instead of panicking because I GAVE TOO MUCH AWAY DANGER DANGER DANGER, I’m back to Blake holding me after local boys had chased me with sticks, soothing bruises with slaves and tears with kisses. 

My muscles relax gradually, shuddering in place, breaths caught.

She makes me feel warm like Blake did. It makes my soul relax for the first time in what feels like eons. She’s singing softly, like Blake did...at the end. Humming Mama’s piano tunes, what she used to hum, even just whispering the prayers to the ancestors that we used to put to song after our actual prayers with a giggle. Blake, despite his dreams to be a doctor in the states, and protect me, and garden, and, and, and, despite that, he absorbed the music. Just as I did with my piano playing. 

(A haunted boy, coughing raggedly in between notes, packed shoulder-to-shoulder with a dozen other kids, his younger sister grasping at his chest, wet with tears, humming along haltingly through her tears, she knows what’s coming, she’s seen it, the bodies in the pit she’s dug, the machine guns, the medical tent, not in that order. And younger me was afraid.)

I curl into a ball, Brooke following the motion easily. 

“I shouldn’t have said that,” I say.

“No, shhhh,” Brooke says, “You did so well. You defended us, you took the pressure off, you got rid of the danger. You did so, so well.”

I laugh brokenly. “A skill I got from those-those-them-” I take in a shuddering breath, “So efficient,” I say as if it’s a curse, a thing dripping poison. 

“You didn’t get it from them, though,” Brooke says, sure as a rock. “You protected people. They didn’t have you do that.”

(Staring into the eyes of a child-) (-gun in hand-) (Bringing the child to an orphanage at midnight-) (-attacking the handler.) 

“Yay, I have a soul,” I mutter. “Doesn’t change the fact that I’m guilty-I did that, I-I-I-”

Mr. Stark is suddenly on my other side. He’s slightly colder than Brooke, but equally close. “And you’ll go to trail for it, and we’ll prove you innocent,” he says. “You didn’t chose to do any of it. You were barely aware of what was going on, right?” At my nod (it was like a dream, a nightmare, varying levels of lucidity but no control), he continues. “We can prove that. And mind control-that chair, sorry, and-we can prove you’re innocent.”

He gets still all of a second. I know the look on his face-Blake sometimes got it when I walked into the house covered in bruises and maybe bleeding. “Did-uh, did they implant anything in-uh, inside of you…? That could have impacted your thoughts, your actions?”

(Surgery-) (-awake, no sedative for-) (-pain.)

“There was a-a thing. It was-in my-chest…? It used to electrocute me, I think...But-uh-I don’t think it’s there....anymore…”

(Ripping it out-) (-escape, I have to-) (A girl screams, I loom up, blond hair-)

“I think I tried to escape... a while ago. There was a girl...she tried to stop me, but I think...I tore it out.”

Captain Rogers is regulating his breathing. More obviously than everyone else in the room, anyway. 

(On my stomach-) (-scalpel-) (My back, an angry red, the nape of my neck, almost-) (“Shay! Shay, oh my God, what did you do to her!? Get away from her!”) (My thoughts would stutter-) (-what…?)

“I think they implanted someth’n else. Like, in my spine…? Back….? Neck, maybe? I don’t know. But...it, uh, made-makes-it hard, to, uh, think. And maybe painful? I don’t know if it’s what causes that.”

Speaking of, my head hurts again. I press more against Brooke, leaning my head on hers (it would be her shoulder but she’s too short). 

“Wait, you’re in pain?” Brooke asks at the same time as Mr. Stark. I hum nocomittably and breathe out with another spike of pain.

“Every tIme I thInk too hard,” I mutter. “Remember.”

“So you are regaining your memories?” Natasha asks. “But it hurts because of that...device?”

Stark is muttering to himself. Something about biotechnologies and stupid Nazis. Dr. Banner crouches down in front of me. 

“Can I try feeling your back? I would just have to move the collar of your shirt down and press lightly,” he says softly. I nod, and he moves forward. 

Hands gentle push the collar of my shirt down, and cold fingers cause me to flinch away.

(Totally not the memories.)

(Hands, skimming-) (-doctors talking, scalpels-) (“Hold still!”)

I grip Brooke’s hand hard. She strokes the back of my hand with her thumb, humming softly. 

“There’s a slight bump here,” Doctor Banner mutters. “Not cartilage, hard and imobile, but not a displaced bone-I can feel all of the vertebrae in your spine are in place. So that’s probably our culprit. It’s kind of attached at the very top of the spine, kind of…”

Mr. Stark looks incredibly concerned. “But that means they could monitor or control all electrical impulses from the neck down, and potentially affect the feedback she gets from doing certain things...and there might be another part in the brain that causes the pain, or potentially just her mind rebuilding all the cells while she’s trying to use them.”

“Either way,” Natasha mutters, “Literal mind control.”

“Thanks, I didn’t know,” I muttered. “The seven decades didn’t clue me in.” I wilt instantly, expecting a hand to hit me somewhere, curling more inwards, but Brooke just snorts and the conversation moves on. 

“We can probably get it out. Whether we can do it without damaging nerves, though-” Dr. Banner winces.

“I heal fast,” I say, “Wouldn’t that not matter here? Just-Just get it out of me.”

Mr. Stark climbs to his feet and offers me a hand. “I think your healing factor has enough to do right now. How about we go see Spark? She should be coming around soon. Happy told me he’s going to pick up her dad now. She’s got a visitor already in the lobby, apparently. We can grab her on our way over, along with her boyfriend.”

The rest of the Avengers all decline. Sleep, shower, and food first, which is fair. Brooke kisses me (seems delighted at my surprise while my thoughts screech to a stop), then says she has to get home to her mother, who will be worried. This is also fair. 

But I’ve just got these people around me, and I’ve weathered much worse, physically. Thus: my first priority are these new...friends. 

We go to see the small hero. I wonder how fast I can learn US law to help her, or if I can in another way. Perhaps, I could assist with her family, who will probably be distraught...


	23. Shay Goes To Court and Battle While Spark Forcefully Sits In A Hospital Bed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Let my know if you like it! The violence is non-graphic this time, but there. 
> 
> TWs
> 
> Medical Trauma  
> Hospitals  
> Discussions of past abuse and mistreatment  
> Self-hate (shay, non graphic)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know if I missed any TWs! Hope you enjoy, sorry it's a short one, you're dealing with my actual writing speed now. (Hint: It's not fast.)
> 
> See you next time, guys, girls, and the gender non-conforming!

Izzy murmuring in my ear, running statistics. Something medical. Pulse, blood pressure, oxygen level… Ray’s hands on mine, a little firmer than usual but soothing with his thumbs running over the back of my hands. The sleepy haze. Dad’s voice, gentle, asking questions, like he did for mom when-back then. 

Dread.

What happened?

My eyes open with an effort like the moving of a mountain. There’s a steady beeping-a heart rate monitor, it’s to my left. Ray is in the medical bed with me, curled up to the right side, seemingly just softly stroking the skin on the back of my hands. Dad is talking to a nurse, a man in scrubs with a clipboard that he’s referring to. 

And that’s when the pain hits me like a train and also a steamroller. 

My heartbeat must pick up, or something, because suddenly everyone’s looking at me, but all my effort is on breathing, because if I don’t do that I think I’ll just stop. 

And then Shay is there, and she is leaning over me and frowning. She speaks to the nurse, “Could my...cells help?”  
The nurse blinks fast. “It will take weeks, if not months, to get the actual product, but theoretically, yes. Right now, now.”

Which for some reason my brain fixates on. Then the gray stuff between my ears fixate on the feeling of Ray’s hands on mine, because anything but the pain. Shay is still frowning, but she doesn’t outdo Dad, who looks like he’s about to shatter. 

“She’ll live, right?” he asks. 

“Yes,” Shay says with confidence that would bring gods to their knees. “According to this scan, her body is already replenishing her energy levels to what they had been beforehand. And her injuries sustained should be healed within a couple of months at the most.”

Lag. Lag.

“My chest,” I croak.

Ray’s thumb smooths over my knuckles, circling them as if they’re fascinating. “A plasma burn,” he says. “Third-degree burn. You’ll have a nasty scar, but you managed to avoid any serious damage other than a fun new mark on your chest.”

“Hurts,” I mutter. Shay nods and starts typing on a computor.  
“You been on any drugs before? You have a strange amount of tolerance.”  
“Insomnia drugs,” I admit. “Couldn’t sleep. Can’t.”  
“She takes them whenever she really, really needs to pass out but can’t,” Ray explains. “It’s around every few months, sometimes once a month if Spark is found still awake.”  
I huff but don’t argue. It’s true; sleep means nightmares, doubts, and anyway, I’m much more productive awake. It’s best for all parties if I’m not comatose.

Shay raises an eyebrow but hits enter on the keyboard. The IV next to me makes a clicking sound, and then the stream of morphine picks up slightly. I watch the tube fatten until it finally connects with my arm. I know the drug hasn’t worked yet-there’s not been nearly enough time-but the placebo effect is truly incredible and I relax in my bed.

Shay then pulls up a chair in the most serious way I have ever seen the task been done. “Spark, while you were somewhat, er, loopy during the moments when you regained consciousness briefly, we asked you what you would like to have happen surrounding your current situation. You, in your somewhat unfunctional state, replied in a round-about way, which while helpful, did happen to include a few family secrets.” 

I tense, and I see Dad do the same in my peripherals.

“Mr. Stark is currently discussing with his lawyers and accountants how to transfer a sizeable sum of money to your father’s account. He is also willing, along with the rest of the Avengers and any who catch wind of this in the future, to keep his silence, provided that you give any and all information you have and stop assisting with the more nefarious side of the NYC nightlife.”

“I feel like I told of by the principal,” Ray muttered, staring at her. “And I wasn’t even the one that was aimed at.”

I nod. “Shay does have a very good Mom Friend attack of Scold. It is Very Effective.”

Shay looks puzzled, Dad sighs tiredly, and Ray and I giggle. 

“And you are about as good at avoiding trouble as a long-tailed cat in a room of rocking chairs,” Shay says smoothly. This makes Ray and I properly crack up.  
“She’s not wrong,” Ray wheezes. 

My dad just waits it out, familiar with the scene. He and Shay start discussing in Legalese, chatting about our finances and how this will be off the books, and other boring stuff.

“You know, Shay,” I finally manage, sobering enough to talk without interrupting myself with laughter, “You don’t have to act all serious. You’re still a teen, no matter how old you are chronologically. An incredibly mature one, sure, but you’re allowed to be young. Come on, this is your time to be young and stupid.”

Shay hesitates, then nods with a small smile. “I don’t know if I trust myself enough for that,” Shay says softly. 

“It’s okay, we’ll teach you!” I say brightly. “Wait until you meet Onyx, you’ll have a full crash course in Memes 101!”

Shay looks at me blankly while my dad sighs. “Not that this isn’t fun, but-”

A hologram pops up in the middle of the room. Which, an honest-to-God hologram in my Stark/Avengers-medical-room is one of the most exciting things that has ever happened to me. 

Holy sh*t the Avengers know my secret identity. Holy cr*p the world knows my secret identity. F*ck.

Ray focuses me again my swiping the hologram towards me! And now I’m looking! At! A! Hologram! I can see the ‘dork’ in Ray’s eyes, but it’s fond so I graciously ignore him. 

The beautiful piece of tech glows blue, is apparently safe to touch, and moves like a dream. I almost cry. When I first discovered their existence, I was mystified enough by the genius that is Stark Tower that it didn’t affect me much, but now! Holograms! 

Ray snickers. I ignore him once again. Dad steps out to take a call, looking stressed. I barely glance at him because! Holograms!

The hologram’s message is actually quite important. It’s talking about the press’ reaction (explosive, wild, apparently my face made it on the five o’ clock news, yay), the press release regarding it from SI (“Miss Dillon is hereby considered an ally of the Avengers, and any attack on her life, liberty, or the pursuit of happiness will be treated as an attack on the Avengers; this goes for any allies of Miss Dillon as well,” Miss Potts says/types, probably regally), and other fun stuff (I am apparently registered as an agent/ally of the Avengers, who has SI lawyers on my side) (????!!!!!!!!). 

“Congrats,” Shay says, “You’re an Avenger, sort of.”

“And you’re a war criminal,” Ray throws back, but with no heat. I look at him questioningly and with a little warning (Lord knows I’m not chasing Shay off now), and Shay just smiles tightly and swipes her finger at the hologram. It shifts to new text-stuff covering-

Holy sh*t. 

Looks like I wasn’t the only surprise at the press conference. The top headlines: LONGEST HELD PRISONER OF WAR TELLS HER STORY: NAZI GERMANY, THE CAMPS, AND THE FAILINGS OF NATIONS, FREIND, FOE, OR FAILED: SHAY LI, THE “RAVEN”, NAZI ASSASIN COMES OUT: CLAIMS BRAINWASHING AND TORTURE, and, of course, the Bugle and Fox News: MURDERER COMES FORWARD; MENACE CLAIMS INNOCENCE and NAZI KILLER COMES FORWARD; TURNED IN FOR TRIAL BUT SHIELDED BY SHADY STARK. 

Good Lord. 

“What?” I say.

“I was in a concentration camp by eleven,” Shay says, voice like ice. “My brother died there. After that, I found the guard that was responsible for his death and my...assault previously and attempted escape with his gun. Got shot, HYDRA decided my dying pre-teen body was good for some old-fashioned human experimentation. Add some brainwashing, torture, and manipulation, and you have one heavily taumatized HYDRA assasin.”

On a scale on one to ten of surprise, that ranks at about a seventeen. 

“How old are you?” I ask, shook. Shay barks out a laugh.

“What?” she asks incredulously. “That’s what you focus on?”  
“It’s 2013, do the math, I wanna know,” I say. 

Shay shakes her head, a small smile on her face and a spark of relief in her eyes. “I’m ninety, but also seventeen.”

“Wooooooaaaaaaah,” I gasp. “Oh my God! I need a sample! We could cure ageing! How does it work? Do you have other powers? This is so cool!”

Ray snickers again, his eye flicking between my awed face and Shay’s surprised one. Shay says, hesitantly, “I think the doctors here are already on it. They practically tackled each other for a cheek swab.”

Ray smiles hugely. “She’s right. They’ve come in six times asking for another sample, looking like it’s every holiday at once because she exists.”

And then something hits my brain after my brain goes down the path in the back of my head of kidnappings and illegal human testing.

“Where’s Petal?!” I demand suddenly, looking up. 

“What?” Ray says.

“Is she still with Petal? Are they okay?” I ask desperately.  
“Is there a reason they wouldn’t be okay without Petal?” Shay asks hesitantly. 

I pull out my IV and try to sling my legs over the edge of the bed in lieu of answering. Shay calmly presses me back down and restarts my IV with a too-strong hand that I can’t effectively push against. When I try to wiggle out, I find the full range of her enhanced strength when she places both hands on my shoulders and adds not insignificant pressure. 

“They need help!” I say. 

(Help, move, create, work, don’t be usele-)

Izzy speaks up from Ray’s phone. Shay hones in on the offending device quickly, her eyes suddenly sharp. “Star’s condition is stable. Star’s fever is expected to spike within the next twelve hours and is at current within a level that is not dangerous.”

I sigh, slumping.

“Wait, Izzy, are those kids okay?” I ask. "The ones that were also in the warehouse?" Shay's eyes are sad, and her head is tilted slightly. 

Izzy reports promptly. “I have been monitoring the area. There have been no crimes or attacks in the area, and they have been as of yet undetected by police or other government agencies. They have seemed to find another doctor who entered the building seven hours ago and has yet to exit.”

“Would you like the Avengers to send aid?” J asks unexpectedly from the ceiling. “Mr. Stark has been informed of the situation and wishes to help.”

We all jump. Shay even pulls a gun and then hastily puts it away, looking almost embarrassed. Ray’s gaze lingers on her but no one comments. 

“You’re so nosy, J,” I say without anger. “Yeah. Iz, send J the info. And don’t pretend you can’t, J absolutely knows you’re trying to hack him.”

“I prefer the term ‘politely investigate’,” Izzy says at the same time J says, “I have no idea what you speak of.”

J continues while I snort, “Mr. Stark has located the building and sent a covert team to pick up the children and bring them here for immediate medical attention.”

“Some of them are young,” Shay says. “You might want to be gentle. You know, no masks or codewords. Make it as non-threatening as humanly possible.”

“Of course, Ma’am.”

“How do you know that?” I ask. Shay flinches, although my tone wasn’t accusing. 

Her tone is blank, like a soldier reporting on a mission. I hate it. “At estimated fourteen hundred, left the base. Came across an in-progress kidnapping of a previous acquaintance. During my intervention I left all the opponents unconscious before going comatose. Woke up at estimated fifteen hundred to an “superhero” that introduced herself as “Ever Flame”; threat level estimated low. Traced kidnapping to facility in subway tunnel. Broke up the operations and rendered the staff unconscious. Brought the subjects of the human experimentation in the facility partway to an abandoned warehouse before encountering hostiles. Fighting the hostiles resulted in my capture.”

We all stare at her, including the nurse who, working at SI for the Avengers, has probably seen a lot of weird stuff. 

“Okay,” I say slowly, unsure of how to respond. “You know I didn’t need to know? And this isn’t a...mission report, or something?”

Shay blinks, looks around (door, window, vents, nurse, Ray, me, machines, walls, ceiling), and then deflates. “Yeah, sorry. There-they-human experimentation. So, uh, I...helped.”

Ray highfives her, or attempts to. Rah winces halfway through the movement-my mind flashes for an instant to the impossible feat of stuffing his new wings under his shirt how did I forget this is he okay-and Shay catches it, but instead smiles gently. She also looks mystified by the motion, and when Ray demonstrates quickly, hesitantly high fives him back. “Nice, man! One of us!”

“One of us, one of us, one of us,” I chant/mutter under my breath. Shay gives me a weird look but doesn’t say anything. 

The nurse looks mistified, but probably because of an NDA, goes right back to his laptop and clipboard with a lot of intensity. 

“Yeah, superhero and friends,” I say, hastily covering up for Ray’s slip. Even if my identity is out, no need for everyone else’s to be too. 

Ray gives me a blank look, raises an eyebrow, which Shay undoubtedly catches, but doesn’t contest me comment. Shay glances at the nurse, seemingly thinking. She then looks me over, her head tilted about a degree. 

Shay then pastes on a smile that screams agreeable and also I’m a Slytherin. 

“What’s your name?” she asks the nurse. “Are you a nurse here?”

The guy looks up sharply, startled. He was trying very hard not to look like he was eavesdropping. “Uh,” he says. Shay waits patiently until he manages to stutter out, “I’m, uh, James. James Murphy. I’m-uh, I’m getting my medical degree in mutants and enhanced individuals, so I’m learning stuff-here. At Avengers Tower, I mean.”

“That’s interesting,” Shay says, the picture of curiosity. “What’s a mutant?”

The guy brightens. “Someone born with genes mutated. The X gene, to be specific. Depending on how it mutated, they get a bunch of cool powers. Right now, they’re kind of discriminated against, so I want to become a doctor for them so I can help them out.” His hands are waving around, he’s got a big smile; he clearly chose the correct career. Also, he’s a sweetheart. 

“Well, Nurse Murphy,” Shay says, drawing out the title, making the guy puff up a bit. “If this is a training type thing for you, why are you in here? I’m sure JARVIS will inform you if anything goes wrong. You could go help the researchers figure out the mysteries in my blood.”

The guy’s eyes widen. “Well…” he says, hesitating. “I guess, but-”

“I will get you personally,” Shay reassures. 

James takes a moment, but he eventually shrugs and hesitantly goes out the door, closing it behind him. 

Shay turns to us in an instant. “So, Spark, Ray,” she says, “How did you decide to become superheroes?”

Ray splutters, trying to come up with something to say while going in between the truth and the carefully maintained lie. I gape at her.

Shay shifts in her chair, placing her head in one hand and giving us a teasing smirk. “So you are superheroes. Who else?”

The silence rings. Shay rolls her eyes. 

“I’m going to settle on everyone until otherwise specified,” she says, studying us both. “Want a new mission?”

Ray looks at her questioningly, one hand on my leg like I’m going to pop out of bed and demand to get shot fighting a mugger or something at Shay’s beck and call. 

“What is it?” I ask, because what on Earth could Shay say?

“You thought I was the only one HYDRA kidnapped?” Shay asks rhetorically. “There were three others that had a semblance of humanity. One of them, Jamie, or Jamison I suppose, commited suicide recently, I think. A girl who was actually a guy named Julian or Jules, died on an escape attempt with me a few decades ago. James-slash-Winter-slash-Bucky is still alive and still with those-” Shay clears her throat, and continues- “I want to get him back. I don’t know if the Avengers will help-they have a lot going on, obviously, but-”

“The Avengers have been made aware of the situation and are currently gearing up,” JARVIS announces. I startle, as does Ray, but Shay just smiles calmly. I wonder for a second if that was a roundabout way to ask J to ask the team if they’re willing before Shay gets up. 

“Excellent. Spark, if you will, please ask your artificial intelligence to request back up. Ray, I assume we have to get you geared up? And Spark, if you dare get out of that bed, I will come back here and put you right back in it. You’re allowed to follow us electronically, but if you dare hurt yourself more-”

I wave her concerns away, already pulling out my phone while Ray rolls his eyes and puts my laptop in the bed before climbing out. “I’ll be fine. I’m used to this roll, me and Izzy are usually support anyways. But if you all die I am coming in to collect your bodies, nevermind plasma burns.”

“Deal,” Shay says, checking my machines one final time, “No one gets to die. Sounds good to me.”

And then they’re gone, out the door. 

I smile. This is a game I love to play. “Izzy, doll, welcome to Avengers Tower,” I say. “Pull up stats, you know the drill. J, if you will, could you indulge us to the Avengers’ stats and location?”

My computer screen comes alive. Everyone’s location, vitals, general status, at my fingertips. Within ten minutes, everyone is so close together that Izzy is able to help me keep up with everyone’s shifting positions. Apparently, they’re going for a short plane ride, with the Avengers, all of our stupid teenage gang minus me, and Spidey, all the way over to- somewhere. According to J, they’re headed to a major HYDRA base outside the city that Shay remembers. 

I get audio once everyone is on the jet, the Avengers, Spidey (extremely excited), and our little superhero gang. Even Star managed to show up, although to my practiced eye it looks like she managed this by chugging some coffee and pain meds, especially going by her heart rate. I tell Izzy to do her best to keep both Ray and Star out of trouble right before the madness is unleashed. The main points are covered-oh my God you’re children, are you sure you can handle this, the fierce arguement from Petal that shuts everyone up, the screaming at each other about I-know-who-you-are, all that. Then someone (Captain Rogers cough cough) asks what the game plan is.

Shay speaks up. “First of all, any bullet you fire at Sergeant Barnes is a bullet I fire at you.” Once she deems that everyone is in agreement with that statement, she continues. (Spidey looks both afraid and in awe of Shay.) “Secondly, this is a large base. One of the biggest. So I’m not taking any wounded individuals with me, because they won’t be walking out with me. Therefore, Ray and Star, I’m going to have to respectfully ask you to remain behind.”

Star doesn’t even look offended. She just nods and collapses in a nearby chair, slumping forward and groaning. I check her stats-slightly uneven but not unhealthily so. Spidey looks concerned, stepping forward, but-

Ray attempts to argue, until I speak through his earbud. 

“Ray, sweetheart, love of my life, sit down and take some pain meds. You should be in a hospital bed right next to mine. And while I’m honored that you’re so ready to help one of my friends, it’s not going to be at your risk, so sit. Down.”

Ray pouts but sits, very carefully. He winces about seven times. 

“Dude, how do you do it?” Star asks. “I got a little itty bitty version of the serum from those a-holes and I feel dead.”

“What?” Shay says sharply.  
At the same time, Captain Rogers, looking startled, says, “What?!”

“Oh, so that’s why she’s alive,” I mutter to myself while eating jello and collecting a blood sample. 

“Ow! Spark, warning before the needles!” Star says, sitting up with a burst of adrenaline. 

“You got the serum?” Miss Widow asks. “And you lived?”

“Evidently,” I say over speakers I just hacked. “Also, so did you, according to uper-secret government records I hacked.”

Everyone in the jet-thing looks like they’re having difficulties for completely different reasons. I decide to help by giving both of my friends IVs, making both yelp. I snicker over the speakers while typing some more. 

“So the mission is around extraction, but if you burn the place to the ground I’m not exactly going to be mad,” I say, pulling up the place we’re headed for. “I’m going to need Mr. Stark to do some scouting, stealthily, please. Then Miss Widow and Missur Hawkeye, if you would be so kind as to create an opening? After that, it’s just try and find him. Lethal force is a last resort, blah blah blah, don’t die.”

J sounds almost amused. “Couldn’t have said it better myself, Miss Dillon.”

And off they go, charging off the jet like idiots. 

The following fight can be summarised as chaos and also the following:

“Didn’t you parents tell you it’s rude to be a Nazi?”

“Team! Machine guns in the left wing!”

“Hey! That was my blaster! Rude. Take a bullet.”

“In the vents~ In the vents~ Being shot at~”

“Found him!” cut off by unholy screeching, “Christ leave the guy alone! Also, me!”

“Report location!”

“Ow.”

“Taken out the doctor guys. This dude isn’t responding?”

“Evac to helicarrier, he needs immediate medical attention.”

“You’re not allowed to die, Sergeant.”


	24. A Soft Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And this is it, folks! Thank you so much for all the support. I've been working on this for almost a year now and never expected anyone but myself and maybe a few friends to read it. My sister convinced me to post, and honestly, it's been great. I have more things planned, but, in the meantime, for your enjoyment, a soft epilogue. 
> 
> TWs:  
> Shay is sneaky, but with good intent (her moral compass is a little off, but that's understandable)  
> Mentions of surgery/other medical stuff (brief)

I pull out a contact in Wakanda. One Emena Zimvado, a member of King T’Challa’s counsel, and a powerful woman in her own right.

Despite Mama’s beliefs, I have learned the US isn’t the most advanced of countries; that prize goes straight to Wakanda, a nation that exists, sort of. 

I have to prove that I am, in fact, not a Nazi, that the Avengers will not hurt anyone, the ‘small ones’ are here by choice, that I was mind controlled, and that we kind of really are in need of help. 

We’re in within three hours. Emena, who brought me down on the infiltration mission against T’Challa’s father, gives me a once-over, assigns me five guards to make sure I am safe to be here (all fine ladies with spears and shaved heads who don’t appear to like me much), and whisks the Sergeant off to a hospital unlike any I’ve ever laid eyes on (and remember). 

She listens silently as I explain my story in front of the king himself. She vouched for me but still seems suspicious (I think she likes me at all because I had a panic attack the last time she saw me and that I still had several obvious signs of mistreatment, if I was willing to show them). Her eyes darken when Dr. Banner mentions the device in my spine, and suddenly there’s a hologram version of me standing in front of me.

The hologram has its head bowed respectfully, as I do, and has several things highlighted in white. The first is essentially my entire brain. Another is a small rectangular device at the back of my neck that makes my skin crawl to think of. Healed over scars, signs of past wounds, my story written in glowing white. I purposefully look away from the numbers on the forearm that have faded to a faint silver on the real version. 

T’Challa doesn’t visibly weaken, but he grants me passage and an immediate ticket to a surgery to remove the device in my neck. 

I hate the feel of a needle that numbs me, despite the shock at the fact that a drug exists that would work on me. The needle makes every sense alert, scanning for danger, as surely I am about to die. But the drug presses me towards the pull of sleep, to calm, to rest. 

I pass out, Brooke at my side, keeping watch.

I wake up, Brooke at my side, keeping watch.

My systems, one moment, are half online. In the next instant, every single one is on high alert, searching for danger, but-

It doesn’t hurt. I didn’t even realise it hurt until now because it was just always there. My brain-it-it doesn’t hurt, ache. 

“What?” I say, clumsily, my words slightly slurred. 

“Shay!” Brooke shouts. She kisses me, suddenly, and this really doesn’t help my already stuttering brain. 

My neck barely stings-which I don’t understand. When I press on the back of my neck, there’s a slight sting, some warmth, and surely some flush to it. But no searing pain, no blood, no hurthurthurthurthurt that takes over all ability to function. 

I expected this on a logical level but am dumbfounded at the same time. 

Brooke is hugging me, so I hug back. I automatically scan for weapons on her person, finding none. I’m both relieved and of the belief that this is fairly irresponsible. She also makes my chest feel warm, for some reason. 

“Do you need anything?” she asks. “Water? Food?”

“All levels are functional,” I reply absently.  
Brooke gives me a weird look. “Okay, but do you want anything?”  
That grabs my attention. “What?” I ask.

Wanting something… such a foreign concept. Do I want something?

“Uh,” I say, drawing it out. “Like...what?” I watch her face, searching for a negative reaction. Her mouth twitches downwards sightly but she doesn’t look mad, just...sad. 

She blinks at me, her eyebrow scrunched, for a second, saying nothing. “Pain...meds? Food? Water? A...book? I don’t know. Anything.” 

Anything is a wide topic. Especially when one has had as close to nothing as you can get and live. 

The silence is long. Brooke holds my hand gently, squeezing occasionally but letting me think. 

“I think I want to rest,” I say slowly. “But I don’t know how to, really.”

Brooke tilts her head. “I used to feel like that,” she whispers, although to me I can hear her fine. “My dad-well, my biological father-he was...not a great person. Violent. Angry. I had my guard up; fake smiles, always aware of my surroundings, always ready for the next thing to hurt me.”

Yeah. Yeah, that sounds like me. 

“Does it get better?” I say like a prayer to the ceiling, staring at nothing. “Please, I want it to get better.”

“It can,” Brooke says, hushed and still except for one thumb rubbing circles on her first and middle finger. “It’s hard. You have to be vulnerable, truly vulnerable, and you have to trust that nothing bad will happen, at least right that second. You have to let it all go, I guess.”

I think about the way I scanned the room the second I woke up. The way I instantly scan for threats going anywhere. How I kept my eyes closed before I determined it was safe to open them, subconsciously. Everything, really. How could I change all of that and feel safe? It’s what keeps me safe. 

“I’m still doing it,” Brooke says. “I still have nightmares, panic attacks, flashbacks. It’s still hard. But I have smiles that aren’t fake, now, and I don’t feel so fragile all the time.”

We sit in silence. Brooke hands me a glass of-something. It doesn’t smell poisonous, and it’s from her so I take a sip. It’s sweet, fruity. I haven’t had it before, that I can remember. It’s slightly spicy and a tad gritty, but maybe my tongue is extra sensitive too. It tastes completely separate from anything I was ever given by HYDRA, or the microwave meals. 

It makes my brain calm. I immediately put it down, scanning my body for signs of drugging. Nothing. Just peace. 

Footsteps. The door opens-or, rather, the wall of light disappears that I was told amounts to a door here . “That’s the herbal mix we use for returning soldiers and those who have lived through tragic accidents,” said our savior, leaning against the door frame that was a wall of shimmering blue a second before. Emena holds a machine that is flat and silent on one hand that glows brightly from some sort of screen. 

“Your friend has been moved to immediate surgery. After coming out he will be placed in a medically induced coma, or there is the option of cryo freezing-“

“No!” I say. Then, softer, remembering she saved me and Brooke’s words, “Please don’t. That’s what they did to us.”

Emena’s face tightens but she nods. “He will have to remain here for an extended period to fully heal his physical wounds. I would also recommend this for you. Dr. Stark has offered a device of his called BARF that could help you remove the brainwashing.”

“BARF?” Brooke asks incredulously.  
“You can remove brainwashing?” I say. “The future is weird.”  
Emena laughs out loud, startled. “It’s a recent thing,” she says, like that makes the future less weird. 

“In other news,” Emena says, tapping on her machine, “Your lawsuit has been brought into a court case. You are expected to show at court in 3 months, as your time was extended with the circumstances of your health brought into the equation. By that time, you should be fully healed.”

Brooke’s eyebrows are raised but she shrugs. “Cool.”  
“What are you using as evidence?” I ask. I want to know how strong my case is, because no matter how much things have changed, I can’t imagine a world in which the law is easy on a Asian-kind-of-American-kind-of-German teen who’s heavily traumatized but has limited evidence.  
“Everything from the device in your neck, to your required-therapy sessions, with your permission, of course?”

I stare at her. A few hours ago, I had trouble giving a summary of my life to a potential enemy. Announcing it to the globe in what will surely be a massive court case? No. But…

“Sergeant Barnes has a similar times table after his recovery. His case has also been posed before the US government, with his first appearance necessary in around five months,” Emena says, seemingly reading off her device. She looks up at me, then. “You and Sergeant Barnes will have the full support of Wakanda, but I’m afraid we are not willing to go public for this. You will have the strength of all of our connections, however.”

“Ooooh, buying out the system,” Brooke whispers. Emena doesn’t comment. 

“Other than that and weekly mandatory sessions with a phyciatrist, therapist, a doctor specializing in the science surrounding enhanced individuals, and general physician, your schedule is clear, Miss Li,” she says. “What do you want to do?”

And isn’t that a question?

“I don’t think I want to fight anymore,” I say. Brooke squeezes my hand. “But I don’t think I want to stop, because that feels like danger.”

“You could join us,” Brooke says, and then clamps her jaw shut, her eyes flying to Emena.  
The woman in question just rolls her eyes. “While I wouldn’t recommend becoming a superhero, but you are free to do what you wish.” 

Which is a novel statement to be said to me. 

A smile breaks out onto my face along with a warm feeling in my chest. 

\---

LONGEST HELD POWS DECLARED INNOCENT!  
WHY SHAY LI AND SERGEANT BARNES DESERVE OUR RESPECT-NUMBER SEVEN MIGHT SHOCK YOU!  
MURDERERS WALK FREE! STARK AND AVENGERS SHIELD NAZIS!  
NEW SUPER HERO SPOTTED IN NYC-CLICK FOR DETAILS ON THE RAVEN  
SERGEANT BARNES TO JOIN AVENGERS AMID CONTROVERSY  
VIRGINIA “PEPPER” POTTS-STARK?!  
MARRIAGE MADE IN HEAVEN-VIRGINIA POTTS AND TONY STARK’S GRAND WEDDING  
STARKS ANNOUNCE DAUGHTER-WHO IS MORGAN STARK?  
HEIRS TO STARK INDUSTRIES MADE PUBLIC-PETER PARKER AND HARLEY KEENER  
AVENGERS REFUSE TO SIGN ACCORDS UNLESS SERIOUSLY REVISED  
UN ANNOUNCES REVISION COUNCIL FOR THE SOKOVIA ACCORDS

\---

Brooke has asked me twenty-seven (27) times if I am sure, absolutely sure, that I want to move in with her. I have reassured her twenty-seven (27) times that yes, the apartment is perfect, she’s perfect, can you please relax. We’re facing a park and an alley on a corner (one side for the nice views and one for the sneaky superhero exit), within a short metro ride of both Avengers Tower and King’s Bakery, and walking distance of Jack and his boyfriend’s place, as well as Ray’s apartment and a nice area for some shopping and dining. I literally could not have picked a better spot. (I know because I looked at every other spot.)

There’s no place in nearby rooftops where a sniper would have a clear shot, everything is on paper so is far less likely to be seen by anyone who would wish us ill, and I’ve achieved peace/fear from all the surrounding threats. Plus, I’ve got, like, an army of enhanced individuals on speed dial (which I learned about last month). 

Star and Ray come by almost immediately, seeking sweets as comfort food after a checkup on their wings from Spark, who is mostly just checking and guessing (she’s trying her best, but there’s no precedent to take example from). They get cookies in exchange for helping us figure out cursed Ikea instructions. Neither of them are much help, but stay for an hour trying to figure it out anyway. 

Star, I have set en route to become mayor, congresswoman, and eventually perhaps president sneakily. She barely knows, only thinking I’ve pulled a few contacts (which I have, Brooke!). Ray will become a chef in whatever restaurant he wishes, and will get a full ride scholarship to the classes he mentioned last month in two weeks. Rinse and repeat this pattern to the affect of: Bryn gets a full ride to MIT, Onyx gets a deal with a label and then a prominent label almost immediately and a publisher willing for a series of books of poems, Jack’s dance career will steadily be increasing along with his funding for doctors visits (dance has apparently gotten intense when I glanced away), Spark should receive her acceptance letter from Columbia within the next week and from the CDC in around five years (as a back up in case I can’t threaten any top positions into availability), Ember will get an acceptance letter from MIT in the same month as Bryn as well as a steady job from SI directly out of school, and Brooke gets a massively improved credit score, loan, backing from SI, literally anything she mentions in the future, and some serious expansion prospects. I’m also planning the end of capitalism within America (the continent), which probably won’t end in the destruction of the US. Russia, China, and North Korea will also see some serious changes. Hydra will finish it’s own implosion in around three weeks, after which I will assist in the jailing and sentencing of each and every one of the compliant people I can think of. 

A new subscinct of the Avengers will probably form within two months. It will involve a sort of list of allies to the Avengers-myself and my aforementioned heavily protected idiotic friends, Deadpool (as way of last resort), Dare Devil, and any others that prove themselves able and willing. 

I run this by Mrs. Potts, who supports all of this. Mr. “Call Me Tony” Stark will probably find out eventually, he’s probably on the same level as me, if focused on different things. 

Currently, several organised crime groups have taken up issue to my presence, along with every American political representative I have dirt against. It’s why Mr. Stark “stealthily” bought the apartments next door on all sides and filled it with members of his security team. Conveniently, those on a schedule set up so that one of them will always be in the building. (He thinks I didn’t notice, like I haven’t been watching the neighboring apartments as well.) 

They don’t pose too much of a threat, as Mr. Dillon has provided myself and the Avengers with plenty of information around the same time I did, giving us a rather conclusive look at the underworld of NYC. 

But, in the meantime, this: Brooke, laughing as she tries to jokingly put the furniture together in a way that is obviously wrong. Taking breaks for cookies, eating on the counter while joking together. My “eighteenth” birthday tomorrow (or ninetieth depending on how you look at it), which is going to be spent on my first proper date. At the aquarium, and then trying out whatever restaurant we feel like, then stopping by King’s to grab some dessert, and then probably hanging out on the highest skyscraper we can find, eating our sweets, before visiting Avengers Tower for the required Team Movie Night (which sometimes devolves into ‘scream at each other in memes while playing various infuriating video games’). 

But I don't mind. Because, finally, something besides fractured memories feels like family. 

\----

Peter Parker and Harley Keener are screaming at each other while I just attempt to figure out the controls to Mario Kart. I was introduced to the hand controller yesterday, so it’s a steep learning curve. Brooke is giving me pointers from her place with her head in my lap, half-asleep after our date today, and probably especially the all-you-can-eat authentic Chinese buffet she surprised me with. (Dolphins are still interesting, but I think otters are my favorite now.)

Morgan is coloring on the coffee table with all of the coordination of a three year old, occasionally catching (or missing) the popcorn Bucky is tossing into her mouth. Barnes, Bucky today, is atop a large pile of superhumans the rest of the world calls the Avengers, but he just calls various pet names, the sap. He’s been making heart eyes at them since they asked him out a few months ago, and during the wooing that happened before that. 

Petal and a girl called MJ are discussing business and sometimes politics-Petal’s clothing store, supported by SI, why capitalism is wrong, and so on. All three look delighted. 

Spark is sitting on the counter, hacking the Pentagon with occasional pointers yelled across the room from Mr. Stark (“Call me Tony, kid,” which is met with giggling). Her boyfriend is cooking something I think is called stir fry with his golden wings relaxed. Star sits drawing Ember, who is sleeping on her (they got back together last week for the third time). Onyx and Jack are...watching memes? I think? They’re doing it while snickering to each other, anyway, which spells out many pranks for the rest of us in the future. Bryn is working on some designs on a hologram while also occasionally hacking our Maria Kart game, with varying levels of success and results. 

I don’t know how we got here from watching Disney movies, but whatever. It’s peaceful. And I let myself enjoy it. 

\---

The letter that came in the mail is from Columbia. I’m fine. They might have rejected me, but I’m fine. It’s fine. Oh, god, what if I didn’t get a scholarship? What if I didn’t get in? I mean, I submitted my application late, technically, so-

“Open the letter, sweetheart,” Ray says, coming in the door. I jump a mile high, whipping around to see him.

“Why are you here?” I ask, already hugging him.  
“Magic, and the fact that Shay hacked the cameras in here and thought you standing in front of the mailbox for twenty minutes was something to call in the cavalry over.”  
“Shay’s taken up hacking?” I ask. “Does she sleep anymore?”  
“About as much as you,” Ray teases, probably to distract me from him taking the letter from my hands.  
“Hey!” I say, reaching for it, but he is taller than me by at least a few inches, so he just holds it above my reach and starts to open it while I try to jump to the height of his hand.  
All motion stops when the letter comes out and Ray starts to read. “‘Ms. Dillon, we thank you for your application to Columbia University. We are happy to say that you have been accepted with a full scholarship!” Ray’s voice gets more excited while he goes on, and I start crying by the time he finishes, before he lowers the letter and engulfs me in a large hug. He lifts me off the ground and spins me around, making me shriek with surprise and laugh, automatically balancing myself on his shoulders. 

Ray kisses me, full-on, smiling. I return the favor enthusiastically. 

After about three breathless minutes of happiness and electricity, we part because a neighbor is trying to awkwardly get their mail. As they move away, Ray grabs the rest of my mail and hands it to me after I climb off of him. I promptly stuff everything in my purse.

“We need to celebrate,” I decide. Ray grins and grabs my arm, taking me out the door.  
He smirks. “How about letting everyone know? The Tower?”  
I laugh. “Heck yeah! Come on!”

We race each other there, with me careful not to drop the letter and wearing slight heels and Ray careful to not get elbowed in the wings, which are strapped to his back with a sort of binder-like thing Petal and Ember came together to make. Although they don’t hurt him anymore, having them stabbed with a bony elbow sure does. All in all, we’re pretty evenly matched. 

We burst into the lobby with about as much grace as usual, if you divide that by several million. The receptionist, a sweet woman named Rosa, looks up and smiles. “Rosa!” I yell, only halfway across the room, “I made it! A scholarship!”  
Rosa laughs and jumps up, hugging me when I get there. She’s just out of college, so she gets it. “Congrats, baby doctor,” she says. “Why don’t you head up, instead of halting the entire lobby?”

It’s teasing, but I just realize how the entire room has kind of hushed. Huh. I grin, uncaring. Ray just sighs, before jogging over the the elevator and pressing the button, turning back to me with a fond grin. 

“Yes, yes, you’re very smart, get in the elevator,” he says, waving me in. It’s the private elevator, for Mr. Stark (-Potts but not many people call him that), Mrs. Stark-Potts, little Morgan, Peter, Harley, the Avengers, close (close) friends, and any superhero who’s been granted access, in costume (or out, I guess, if it’s an emergency, but I doubt anyone’ll do it willingly, us superheroes like out identities nice and on the down low). 

The elevators open to the common area, with Tony (I MEAN MR. STARK-POTTS) tiredly sipping coffee in the kitchen next to an equally tired and tea-sipping Dr. Banner, Natahsa (uh, Miss Ramonov) reading a book with Russian on the cover and braiding Bucky’s hair.

“I GOT IN!” I yell. Mr. Stark jerks, apparently not noticing me earlier, and spills his coffee on himself. As he recoils and Dr. Banner quickly tries to wipe it off with a towel Natasha threw at him (I don’t know where she got it from). Natasha then walks up to me, a half-awake Bucky following. 

“Congratulations, молодой,” she says, kissing me on the forehead. Bucky, looking slightly confused, just hugs me halfheartedly.  
“Go’ in t’what?” he asks.

I wave the letter in his face. “Columbia! Full ride!” 

Mr. Stark, free of his coffee but not his new burns, smiles, practically bouncing. Dr. Banner tiredly shakes his head and tosses the towel in the sink, walking over, as Mr. Stark comes and hugs me excitedly. I’m lifted off the ground for the second time.  
“Kiddo! Good job!” he says. He places me down with a teasing smirk. “Of course, if you made MIT-”  
Bucky smacks him in the back of the head with his right hand. 

“J!” Mr. Stark says, turning. “Tell the team! Tell Pep! You know the drill! I want a party, stat!”  
“Oh no,” Dr. Banner says blankly. “Tones-”  
“Nuh-uh!” Mr. Stark says, placing a finger on Dr. Banner’s lips. “We’re celebrating!”  
“Remember the ground rules, Tony,” Natasha says fondly, going back to braiding Bucky’s hair. Buck is just busy falling asleep standing up. I wonder how long it’s been since he slept-he can go even longer than me, to get to this point, all to avoid the nightmares.  
“Sure,” I say. Ray laughs behind me at the look on Dr. Banner’s face, which is just tired and grudging acceptance. 

J speaks. “Pardon the interruption, but Mrs. Stark-Potts has a message for Miss Dillon,” he says politely. “Would you like me to put the call through, Miss Dillon?”

“Do it, J, you know I love a chat with our resident queen,” I say, smiling at the ceiling even though J technically isn’t in the ceiling. 

“Of course, Miss Dillon. And if I may, my own congratulations to your success.”

“Thanks, J!” I say. Then Mrs. Potts comes over the speakers.

“Spark! Great job, sweetheart. I’ll be up in a bit, I have to get things settled here, but I swear I’ll congratulate you in person in half an hour, at the absolute maximum.”

“Aw, Pep,” I say, “Mrs. SP, you don’t have to apologise. Make it when you can. It doesn’t matter when you show up, because I! Made! It! In!”

I wave the letter in Ray’s face, and he just rolls his eyes and smiles. “You did,” he says.

I laugh. “See you in a bit, Ma’am! I’m expecting a hug!”  
“I’ll hold myself to that,” Mrs. Stark-Potts says, before there’s a beep, meaning the call ended. 

Within half an hour, everyone’s there. Shay shows up with a slight smirk that I don’t question because honestly, with Shay and any semi-positivity, I’ll take what I can get. If her lips are headin’ up and it’s not fake, I’m cool with it. Bryn even comes and bashfully holds up an acceptance letter to MIT, which has Mr. Stark going wild. It ends with Bryn on his shoulders, laughing, while Mr. Stark pops champagne and shouts excitedly. Peter shows up, even taking a few pictures with his dumpster-dive camera. (Even though Tony made him a high-tech one last week.) Harley hears about a party and immediately practically breaks down the doors. This results in a very loud (read: shouted) conversation between Onyx and Harley where they swap memes and vines, occasionally joined by a variety of others. Even Thor manages to make it, not quite understanding what the party is for but in full favor of it. I get my hug from Mrs. Potts-Stark, who is in fact a very good huger. 

Dad shows up fifteen minutes after he gets off from work; a new job with SI as an electrician for the various parts of the building. He greets me with a hug and tears in his eyes, 

And, for once, the voice in the back of my head doesn’t speak.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know in the comments if you have any questions, and I'll answer them. I started writing this a year ago, so I wouldn't be surprised if a story threat was left untucked. Thanks for reading!

**Author's Note:**

> Comments are what keep me going guys. I will respond to everyone and write more for each I see, so please do. Also, to my lovely beta, blue Jay 12.


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